


White

by the_irish_mayhem



Series: Falling in Reverse [1]
Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Dark, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Natasha Feels, Psychological Trauma, Psychological issues, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Content, Torture, Violence, character origin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-25 20:53:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 25
Words: 92,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/642860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_irish_mayhem/pseuds/the_irish_mayhem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The origins of the Black Widow or the previous life of Natasha Romanoff. A journey of loss and love and the intangible quality that makes us human.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Indoctrinate

**Author's Note:**

> **Timeline:** Set in the MCU. The first segment is (or, the story begins) at the end of 1986/beginning of 1987.
> 
>  **AN1:** Most chapters will be lengthier and more complex as Natasha ages.
> 
>  **AN2:** I began this project with the goal of showing Natasha in her full complexity, without the flattening or whitewashing as some fic authors are wont to do. I hope I did her justice.
> 
>  **AN3:** Warnings for physical and psychological abuse, descriptive violence, rape of a minor and an adult, torture including starvation, and some gore.
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
>   
> 

**Subject Age: 3**

A voluptuous woman who looks like her, minus the flaming red mane, and a taciturn man who wears thick, round glasses.

A fire.

She doesn't know how it started, or what it means.

There's heat and _Mama_ and, _Go, my love. I'm coming._

She remembers the dancing red and orange, someone holding her from running towards the flames, one long scream of terror and pain, and then silence.

* * *

**Subject Age: 8**

"But I don't want to study." Studying is the worst. The library smells like stale water and dust. The ticking of the clock is like thunderclaps, slow and rolling.

"But, Natalya, you must."

She screws up her nose and turns her head away. "No."

She knows what the book says. She's read this page at least a dozen times now. Lenin's Decree on Peace. Twenty-sixth of October, 1912. Her tutor has highlighted certain passages for her to focus on. Her eyes fall on the most recent one she's read.

_All these examples of proletarian heroism and historic achievement serve us as a guarantee that the workers of these three countries will understand the tasks which lie before them by way of liberating humanity from the horrors of war and its consequences, and that by their resolute, unselfishly energetic efforts in various directions these workers will help us to bring to a successful end the cause of peace, and, together with this, the cause of the liberation of the toiling and exploited masses from all forms of slavery and all exploitation._

The tutor places a gentle hand on Natalya's shoulder. "You know how important this is to us."

"But it isn't," Natalya says, shrugging away the man's hand. "It's not important."

"It's not? Then why would we ask you to learn it?" Natalya pauses. This is a trap, and she feels so stupid for walking right into it. The cool air of the library raises goosebumps on her arms. She clenches her fists together over the textbook. "The government knows best what you need. Do you believe this, Natalya?"

She grits her teeth. "Yes." It comes out reluctantly.

The tutor smiles indulgently. "Good. Then—"

"But why this?" she interrupts, "Science and history and geography is pointless... Why can't I just do my target practice? I like guns," Natalya reminds eagerly.

The tutor sighs. Natalya's heart falls at the look on his face. "Of course you do, Natalya. It is not often that someone as young as you becomes so accomplished." His tone is indulgent, praising, and Natalya allows herself a prideful smile. "But in order to use those skills, you need a target. And to accomplish your future missions, you have to know all about your target—where they come from, what they know, what they do. This knowledge will help ensure your safety as well."

Natalya looks up at the tutor, away from the infernal Soviet history book, away from the rise of Lenin and the Bolsheviks, the necessary disposal of the tyrannical czar Nicholas II, the history of the Red Army, the righteous invasion of Afghanistan. The proud history of her country. "But I thought my safety was of no concern." _The safety of all above the safety of one._ An ideal that has been central to her life as much as _Love is for children._

The tutor nods, seemingly pleased with her answer. "You are not wrong, Natalya," he says, "we would all gladly lay down our lives for our cause. But can't you see the benefits of being able to complete a mission while staying alive?"

Natalya frowns and folds her arms over her chest. She looks back down at the textbook and faces a bright red portrait of her flag, angry at being proven wrong. "I suppose so."

Her frown gradually becomes a neutral line as she stares at the red of the Soviet Union's proud banner. Her tutor leans closer. "We would never want you to fail your country. Do you want to disappoint us?"

She swallows the suddenly large lump in her throat. She whispers, "No, it's not that..."

"I know, Natalya. There are many things we must do that we do not find enjoyable." The tutor chuckles, always kind but firm. "Teaching history is not my favorite way to spend my time."

Natalya looks at him questioningly, but doesn't say anything.

"But I do it because I know how important it is. And in time, Natalya, you'll learn to appreciate the necessity. Our government knows what is best for us, what the world needs. It's a great burden, which is borne for our sakes. We must do anything we can to help. We must never disappoint our country."

Natalya is quiet, but mouthes 'no.'

The clock ticks on.


	2. The Petty Wrongs

**Subject Age: 10**

"This is very disappointing, Natalya."

She squeezes her eyes shut. _Do not cry._ She reopens them with a slow breath, and her face is so hot, she fears she may begin to sweat. She keeps her eyes on the ground. She can't look up, can't see the disappointment that waits there.

Her tutor crosses his arms over his chest. "We are very surprised. We all thought you would do better." He looks at the young girl, still sitting with her head bowed. "Eye contact, Natalya," he snaps sharply. She immediately looks up, all too familiar with what would happen to her if she did not obey... "You will not be allowed to attend weapons or combat training today or tomorrow. You will spend all your time restudying for this exam."

Natalya nods, blinking away the small tears that had begun to gather. She won't let them fall. "It's is very important to the government, and to this program that you succeed. Do you understand, Natalya?" She messed up because she didn't study enough. She knows that.

Natalya nods again, and lets out a shaky breath as her control starts to slip away. A tear squeezes out of her eye, trickling to her chin. Everything in her twists because she knows her tutor saw it.

The tutor smiles sadly at her, in the condescending way one would smile at a naive child—and Natalya hates it. She hates being treated like a child. "We know it makes you sad. It's natural to be disappointed in yourself. We are sad, too. We thought you were smart."

Natalya feels something white hot rush up her spine. "I am smart!" she yells suddenly, standing up out of her chair in vehemence. Her right hand, her shooting hand, fists so tightly her arm begins to shake. She feels the heat of her anger creeping through her extremities, that ache to strike out that is quickly becoming a constant companion. She decides she can't wait for combat training today. _But they took it away..._ her anger grows.

The tutor asks, "Do you even know which question you missed?"

She does. _1,4-Dioxin can be prepared by cycloaddition, namely by the Diels–Alder reaction of furan and maleic anhydride. The adduct formed has a carbon-carbon double bond, which is converted to an epoxide, colorless and highly flammable..._

"I'll just retake the test." She just didn't study enough.

The tutor smiles maddeningly, again, and Natalya feels her anger fizzling in her fists. "Of course you will. If you fail to improve, we may be forced to expel you from the program. We have no use for a below-average participant, Natalya. We know you are special, but sometimes even the gifted can let us down."

She stares with such hurt, intense hatred beginning to cloud her vision. Her mouth is agape. _Expulsion_. They can't do that. Where would she go if they... She loses the hurt look on her face as she studies the tutor through narrowed eyes. She looks him up and down, easily finding all the pressure points that could incapacitate, even kill...

His weight shifts, and his eyes flick away for a moment. Nervous tics. She's getting to him. It makes her feel powerful. "Natalya, you cannot harm me. It would be unwise to think you can."

She has a gleam of malice in her eyes. "Think you could stop me?" _The fragility of the human body is something to be exploited, Natalya. Brute strength will not help you without cunning._ Words from her combat trainer echo in her head, begging her to stalk forward and _do what she was trained to do._

"Is that a threat, child?"

Child.

_Child._

That nearly makes her snap, but her rage is strangled by her fear, because they could _expel_ her and who is she without the motherland, without them. All thoughts of killing the tutor are draining from her mind like the anger in her limbs. She can't keep disappointing them. They have given her so much already. She can't keep failing. Even if she could get in a few hits, make his head recoil _just so_ and the momentum would snap his neck, the punishment would—

"I am disappointed in you, Natalya," the tutor says, and the last embers of anger begin to die, "Everyone will be very displeased to hear of this incident. It is never your place to question your superiors, and it is certainly not a place to make threats. We will crush this stubborn streak out of you. We have no use of a strong-willed child who cannot follow orders. Do you understand?"

Fear replaces the hate. She tries to ignore it as she slowly sits back down. "I said I'll retake the test," she tells him. She'll fix it, and it will be okay again. "I'll pass, and I'll get better, and we won't have to have this pointless conversation ever again." It _is_ pointless. She can take orders. She just doesn't want to take them from her tutor, who is probably useless in a fight.

The tutor doesn't respond. Rather, he walks out of the room, leaving Natalya by herself ( _but she knows it won't be for long_ ). The room is quiet, save for the ticking of the clock, tolling like a requiem bell.

One of the guards, nameless and faceless, enters and withdraws a live cattle prod.

_Enough to hurt, never enough to maim._

_The scars will fade with time, Natalya._

The Red Room guard stalks up to Natalya wordlessly, that characteristic silence making her terror increase sevenfold. She feels the fear chase all other thoughts from her mind. "No, no, please don't—"


	3. Extradition/Beast

**Subject Age: 10**

"Let the weapon become an _extension,_ Natalya, it's a part of you."

Natalya is finally in her niche. _God, she'd missed this._ Her suspension had originally been only two days, but her subsequent threatening of her tutor had extended that suspension to two weeks, the duration of which had been filled with visits from the Red Room guards.

( _Please no. I'll be better_ —)

She holds her gun in her right hand, her left hand steadying the long barrel like she'd learned. She could have easily squeezed off the 30-round magazine with decent accuracy, but her trainer halts her.

"No. Left hand."

Natalya grits her teeth as she switches hands. The deep, gouging burns left by the cattle prod are, for the most part, centered on her left side. Firing a gun will be extremely painful. Instead of complaining, she just breathes, hoping that it won't cause her too much pain.

She squeezes the trigger once. The long barrel recoils, shoving into her shoulder and directly in one of the healing burns. _Her shoulder is on fire._ Despite her attempts at pain control, an agonized growl slipped through her teeth, and the barrel on the gun dips away from the target, and Natalya's eyes widen in panic.

She cannot fail. Not again.

_We must never disappoint our country._

_We are disappointed in you, Natalya._

Making no further sound, she agonizingly brings the weapon back to the center eye of the target.

The weapons trainer is as indifferent, as parentally firm as the rest of them. "You must ignore the pain, Natalya," she says. "If you give into it, you have lost the battle before it has begun. It is necessary for you to learn how to fire with perfect accuracy while injured. If you cannot perform this task, how can we expect you to fulfill your duty to your country?"

Natalya is tougher with physical strain rather than mental. Easier to just grit her teeth and move on. "I understand," she manages, and finally empties the rest of the magazine, each shot sending tongues of flame licking through her arm and shoulder, radiating down through her side.

The trainer steps forward, "You must learn to fight the pain, Natalya."

"How?" She realizes how broken she must sound, and tries to bolster her pain tolerance ( _one thing she'd learned she had a generous amount of after her stubbornness had landed her heavy bouts of discipline a significant number of times_ ).

The trainer sighs. Natalya tenses. _She can't think I'm weak._ "Think of the science of it, Natalya. What is pain?"

"The firing of certain cautionary nerves that deliver pain signals to the brain that would deter the action that causes the pain," the girl responds automatically, quickly. Facts are easy. "It's a survival instinct.

"Yes," the trainer says, "survival instinct. Physical whims which you cannot overcome?" She says it like a question.

"No. I can do it."

"Good," her trainer says, handing her trainee another full magazine.

Natalya takes the bullets, effortlessly loading the large gun. It seems at home in her small hands. She aims at the target once more.

Before she begins squeezing off the rounds, there is the voice of the trainer again, "As you said, it is a survival instinct. Our instincts are purely physical. If you are strong enough, you can overcome your physical obstacles. Pain," she says, pressing closer to Natalya, "is nothing more than mental weakness. We do not tolerate mental weakness here, do we Natalya?"

_We do not tolerate mental weakness._

_Pain is weakness._

_I am not weak._ _  
_

She doesn't get it right away, the burn still there as she fires one bullet. The fire burns her, and she tries to hide the wince, but she knows her trainer saw it. _I'm not strong enough. Why can't I be strong enough?_ "Natalya, you must focus."

"I am focused," she defends. She wants to empty the gun into the target. Most of her shots have been either on the center or very close to it ( _a very good day_ ) so far, and she doesn't understand why they are still going.

She wants to stop. Her shoulder throbs.

The trainer narrows her eyes. "If you were focused, you would feel no pain."

Natalya raises the weapon again, "But my shots are pretty much perfect," she voices her thoughts ( _something she should know not to do by now_ ), "Why are we still doing this?"

Without warning, the trainer yanks the weapon from Natalya's hands. "Because the shooting is not your lesson today," she answers with calm, terrifying patience. "Learning to function with your pain is." And with that, the teacher grabs Natalya's left shoulder, already screaming from the recent trauma, and _digs_ her fingers in.

Natalya cannot help but scream.

She thought the blunt end of her gun recoiling against the wounds was painful; it's nothing compared to her trainers fingernails digging through the thin shirt she wears. The burns feel like they're bursting, and it feels as if her shoulder might be wrenched from the joint.

Her knees shake, but she doesn't fall. Her body jerks away and her free hand pulls at the trainer's wrist, but she doesn't let go, maintaining the relentless pressure. "Survival instincts cannot always save you," she says, speaking over Natalya's cries. "Look at me, Natalya," she snaps, trying to catch the girl's eyes, "No matter how much pain you are in right now, your survival instincts cannot save you."

The sounds coming out of her throat are strangled, pathetic, pained, and she can't stop them. _Why can't I be strong enough?_

"Are you weak, Natalya? Everyone speaks so highly of you. Will I have to tell them all what a failure you are when you can't tolerate a little pain?" She forces the girl down to her knees.

Those words strike her heart harder and more viciously than any whip, prod, or beating she'd ever received. " _No!_ " Natalya screams, but this time not in pain, but in anger. She pushes up against the trainer's hand, standing so that she can look the trainer in the eye. "I am not weak." She doesn't realize that she no longer feels the pain in her shoulder.

And then the trainer stops, withdrawing her hand. Natalya's body sags in relief, but her mind is clear.

"You are dismissed, Natalya."


	4. In the Beginning

**Subject Age: 10 years**

She doesn't travel outside the facility that often.

In the early hours of the morning, she is roused from sleep by a guard, who guides her to a nondescript van with tinted windows. She doesn't ask questions, merely follows. Inside, she finds a man she knows to be the Chief Interrogative Officer. He doesn't say anything to her, merely murmurs quietly to the guard about how they are ready. Start driving. The guard seats himself in the front seat and they drive out of the underground parking facility.

The countryside flashes by, the gray light of dawn barely illuminating the trees and rolling hills enough to discern them. The drive isn't any more than an hour, and they arrive at a prison facility as the light of day begins to finally break.

As they are ushered through the gates, their vehicle crawling through the latticework of prison gates and chainlink, the Chief finally speaks. "We have a special lesson for you today. There is a long history and tradition of greatness within the Red Room, but you are unique. You will be the first of your kind, Natalya. We have high hopes for what you can do for your country." They come to a complete stop. They have arrived. "This is where your training truly begins."

The building gives off an air of impenetrability, of intimidation and fear. The stonework used in the building looks to be pre-World War Two, at least, if Natasha is remembering her lessons right. Razor wire tops the walls, and she can hear the stifled hum of human life within the building, the vibrations traveling through the old walls.

Before they exit the van, the Chief tells their guard to wait for them. This shouldn't take long.

Natalya is led through security. The prison guards nod in respect to the Chief, and don't stop him despite the fact that he has several weapons on him. They know him.

They give her no strange stares as she follows, and allows herself to be lead silently, obediently, through dingy hallways, nothing like the crisp, sterile halls of the Red Room. It is not long before they stop in front of a cell without the typical prison bars, but a door that looks to be made of wrought iron, opened with the barest nod from the Chief to the man with the keys.

Inside, a younger man is tied to a chair. The Chief gestures for Natalya to enter the room, and her feet automatically step forward of their own volition, curiosity guiding her motions. His face is so swollen and bloody, she can't even distinguish his features. She just stares, the desire to know who he is, what she is doing here, what this special lesson is, the desire to just _know_ quietly simmering. "Don't speak," the Chief commands Natalya. He turns to the bloody man. "State your crime."

The prisoner looks up through a matted fringe of hair. His green, bloodshot eyes wander from his interrogator, and Natalya fights back a grimace when his gaze locks on hers.

Her presence confuses him, she can tell. She knows enough to know that she's not typical, she's _unique._ Don't they have people like her wherever he is from?

The prisoner continues to stare at Natalya, some form of desperation in his eyes. _Help_ , they say. _Help me._ She stares back blankly.

"We have all the evidence," the Chief says, sounding tired and bored though his posture is absolutely ramrod straight as always. "We have copies of the messages you sent. We know where those messages went. If you confess, if you cooperate, we will be lenient."

The prisoner does not respond, and Natalya finds herself wondering if he even has the capability to do so. His gaze is off Natalya now, and he has gone back to staring blankly at the floor. She wonders how coherent he really is.

"Final chance."

Again, no response.

The Chief speaks to her without looking away from the prisoner. "The greatest menace to our nation, Natalya," he says, sounding lecturing as he begins to circle the prisoner like a slow calculating predator, "is insurrectionists. Spies. Their one and only goal is to topple our government that does so much for its people. Unfortunately, a select, heretical few have gotten it into their heads that they are the saviors of our people. We know this is not true, and their groups are often poorly organized and suffer from much fighting within their ranks. They pose no real threat, but their existence cannot be tolerated." He comes to an abrupt halt next to Natalya. "However, before we take decisive action, we always attempt to extract information from prisoners. Information is everything. A handful of facts can be more dangerous than an army of tanks."

The Chief pauses emphatically, allowing her time to absorb the lesson. "However, we've done all we can with this one. He has outlived his usefulness."

He reaches down and draws his pistol from its holster, and holds it out to Natalya.

It is clear what he wants her to do. There could be no other meaning behind the gesture, so she takes the pistol and lets her arm fall back to her side. The weapon is light in her hand. ( _A Tokarev TT-33 Semi-automatic pistol. 0.84 kilograms. .45 caliber rounds. 8 round detachable box magazine. Maximum effective range of 50 meters. Muzzle velocity of 420 meters per second._ ) The gun feels at home in her hand, but the task at hand is anything but ordinary. _  
_

"Twice to the head, Natalya."

Natalya realizes that the prisoner finally speaks. In English, which is the one language she is having some trouble grasping, much to her linguistics instructor's chagrin... "You use a child to do your dirty work? This is what makes you so despicable." She is confused by his words, but does not allow it to show.

Her throat closes. Her stomach twists, and she begins to worry that she may begin to wretch in the middle of the interrogation room. Her hand tightens around the pistol. "Remember what I said. You are unique. This task is something we ask of you for the good of all people."

She feels the urge to look at the Chief for reassurance — but that would be a sign of weakness. She cannot be weak.

She has been given an order. _We have no use of a strong-willed child who cannot follow orders._

"Taking a life is just like target practice, Natalya. Aim and fire." _  
_

Just like target practice. She's taken a thousand shots _just_ like this.

The green, bloodshot eyes find her in the poorly lit cell. _Help_.

Hesitation. Something she's been taught to never do. She hesitates _strongly_ at the thought of taking a life.

The Chief waits, saying nothing, as if being patient with her. That stings her, grates on her. Natalya Romanova requires no one's patience.

_The good of all above the good of one._

Just like target practice, she raises her right arm, supported her wrist with her left hand, aims, and fires.

Once.

Twice.


	5. Slip, Fall

**Subject Age: 12**

Natalya groans as her body hits the mat. Again.

Her combat instructor sighs, stepping back and letting Natalya get herself up. "Natalya, you are exceptionally strong, but that brute strength will do you no good in a fight against many opponents. It is inefficient and sloppy."

Natalya nods. She got carried away. She tries not to, but here she is, charging at her combat instructor like she's a green ensign who doesn't know her ass from her elbow. "I know."

He seems to hold back a sneer. "Then why do you not finish, Natalya? You begin with the proper technique, but you wind up finishing like a bumbling brute. You must retain discipline and control."

Natalya nods, but remains silent. "Let's go again. I'll be better." The instructor stares her down before grabbing her arm and dragging her towards the hallway and out of the gym. Her shorter legs forces her to nearly jog to keep up with him.

She doesn't recognize exactly where they are going, and she loses track of her turns ( _which they'd been trying to teach her, blindfolded. Approximate speed, distance traveled, number of turns..._ ) and begins to feel incredibly stupid. This should be easy.

Her trainer leads her up several flights of stairs, the halls becoming less sterile and more militaristic. He leads her to a window that looks down on a training room that resembles the one in the Red Room, except it is filled with a crowd of young men.

It suddenly occurs to her what this room is. One of the many military hand-to-hand combat rooms that she assumes reside in the large facility. Her instructors informed her long ago that the Red Room was only a small part of Russia's military, but it was far and away the most important.

She is about to ask him why he brought her here, but, before she can utter a single syllable, he says sternly, "Observe, Natalya. Do not speak."

She turns her attention back to the observation window. She finds herself holding back a snort of condescension as she watches them fight. Just a bunch of brash boys trying to prove who is the toughest. Their hand work is sloppy, and their feet clumsy.

"This type of observation," the trainer says, "is crucial in understanding the advantages and disadvantages inherent to different styles of hand-to-hand combat. What you see now," he says gesturing to the boys she'd just labeled sloppy and clumsy, "is how you currently fight. You start with elegance, and wind up like this. You must expect more of yourself, Natalya."

She has always hated criticism, and bites down on her tongue to keep from responding.

"But we will continue to observe here and practice, until these maneuvers become instinct, Natalya. Until they are as natural and expected as the next breath you take."

They've been watching for nearly an hour when some of the men notice her and her trainer coldly observing from the observation deck above them. She only returns their curious, confused looks with as much cool indifference as she can manage.

She can read their lips, what they are saying. _'What's that kid doing here?' 'I bet she's a lost little girl.'_ They all laugh at that.

Natalya sneers. She could probably kill more efficiently than they. The knowledge makes her feel strong.

The trainer must notice her grimace. For the first time ( _ever_ ) she sees an emotion come across his face — a smirk. Feral. Bloodthirsty. "You wish to spar with them."

For once, she feels understood. A confident smile spreads across her face. "I could kill them if I wanted. Their arrogance should be punished."

"So you seek a lesson in humility."

She nods. Eagerly. Her trainer seems pleased. "Come."

He leads her through a door and down a flight of stairs before emerging, into the bright, white light that beams down on the fighting mats.

One of the superiors in the room ( _she isn't sure if the normal military men have handlers like she does_ ) halts the exercises. "General Sorolov," one calls out in greeting.

She never realized her combat instructor has a name. None of her instructors have names.

They all stiffen in a salute before her trainer barks out, "At ease, men." There is a lull in the room before her trainer speaks again, "I need your best man on the mat." Stillness. "Now."

The other, older men, who all obviously fear/respect her trainer fly into action and pick out 'the best man'. He is, in a word, huge. All solidly packed muscle and intimidation. Dark features that Natalya could consider somewhat handsome.

It doesn't matter now. She is going to spar.

She tosses her flaming red hair over her shoulder, and ties it back with an elastic before stepping onto the mat.

The large man, a _boy,_ really, laughs. "You want me to fight her? Really?"

Her trainer, stone-faced, says, "Yes. I do."

He laughs harder. "I hope I don't break anything," he says to her trainer before turning to Natasha. She's sizing him up, and he's not worried. "Watch out, little girl."

Natalya snorts, anything but dignified. The thrill of the fight begins to run over her skin like electrical pulses, the fire racing up her spine as her heart begins to beat in double time. Her opponent probably doesn't realize that he cannot inflict as much pain as she's already experienced.

And she's watched him. In the hour before they'd come down, she'd watched and learned, absorbing all the different fighting styles and automatically imagining herself in those positions and how she would counteract each strike. From what she could tell from her observation, he is a highly physical fighter, relying on his out-sizing his opponents in order to drag them to the ground and pin them. His favorite is forcing his opponents facedown on the ground, with an arm twisted behind their backs. She smirks because she knows he won't get that far with her.

"Maybe you should be taking your own advice, Cream Puff." Not her best quip, but considering the look in his eye, she'd struck home. Her instructors are trying to stop her from doing that. Taunting her opponents. But god, sometimes it is worth the _look_. The _surprise_. It makes her lips curl into a wild, feral grin.

Without an official beginning to the spar, her opponent lunges at her with a growl, but she isn't fooled. She moves out of the way without a problem, using a booted foot to shove him further off balance. In the ass.

The other cadets had thus far been rowdy, chuckling and jeering at her, but as soon as their counterpart hits the mat, they fall silent.

Needless to say, he is thoroughly pissed off. Natalya admits that literally kicking his ass probably wasn't the best idea, but there it is. The _look_ , and the satisfaction that rises in her is nearly enough to make her giggle. He stands, and doesn't come charging at her in rage like she'd anticipated.

Instead, he slowly approaches her, appearing calculating for the first time that day, and she hunches into her battle stance. The electricity crackles through her. A fist comes at her, blindingly fast, and it misses her by _that much_. She turns her back to his solar plexus, grabs his forearm in on hand and shoves her shoulder into his elbow. She hears the telltale _crack_ that tells her it's dislocated. She follows by driving her elbow into his ribs, and she hears the pained _huhh_ of his contracting diaphragm.

She stomps his foot viciously and spins away. He's holding his elbow, a pained look on his face. ( _E_ _ven when your enemy appears to yield, you must be unyielding._ ) A smiles wets her lips, and she runs at him, and she catches the wide-eyed look on his face as she leaps, and wrapping her legs around his unprotected head, a move that's quickly becoming a signature for her. The electric charge flows.

She uses her momentum to propel herself forward over his shoulder. She feels his weight shift as he loses his balance as she _yanks_ with her legs, her shoulders knocking out his center of balance in his hips, and brings his immense height crashing to the mat. She swings around his side to leap off before he can crush her.

Her dismount isn't as smooth as she hoped, couldn't get her legs underneath her quickly enough, so she lands on her knees. No matter. She tucks herself and rolls quickly into a standing position.

He's still on the ground, and the thrill of victory makes her giddy, makes her cocky. She goes over to him, shoves a knee into his ribs. "Had enough?" Natalya hisses, the adrenaline of battle still humming through her veins. She wants more. To hell with whatever her trainer wants. She wants _blood._ Sparks thrill through her body.

She expects to hear her trainer calling her off, she expects more verbal jabs from the squadron, she expects herself to snap his neck, but none of those things happen.

Instead, her opponent turns the tables.

She wasn't paying attention. In her mind, the fight had already been won, despite the fact that it had taken barely two minutes. His eyes snap open in rage, and before she can react, before she can disable him, he rolls, using his good arm to slam her against the mats.

She is facedown on the mats, and she knows she's got to _get away_. She feels him beginning to twist her arm behind her back, and she desperately squirms.

His massive weight is pinning her down, and her right arm is behind her back, twisted so tightly and painfully she wants to growl. "Not so tough now, are you?" he taunts.

No, no, no, this isn't supposed to happen, she was supposed to _win_ , to prove to her trainer that she's the best, that she —

She catches a glance of her trainer. There is a look of satisfaction on his face. _You seek a lesson in humility._ He hadn't been talking about her teaching the men a lesson. That much was clear. "Your overconfidence is unbecoming of you, Natalya," he calls out.

Something in her snaps.

The electricity explodes.

She violently throws her head back, feels it connect against his face. She does it again, hears a distinct _crunch_ and his grip loosens and that's all the invitation she needs. She rips her arm from his grasp, rolls out from beneath him.

He does not stand quickly enough. A big mistake.

She delivers a scathing kick to his right ear. ( _Ruins sense of balance. Disorientation follows._ ) Her opponent moans, and tries to stand. She doesn't allow it, too caught up in the heat of the moment to care about the damage she's causing, as she stomps on his cervical vertebrae. ( _When snapped properly can cause instantaneous death. Certain pressure points cause subject to lose consciousness._ ) She does not stop. One after the other, she hammers away at his ribcage, slamming her boot into his side again and again.

She shoves him unto his back, and she scarcely notices that he's lost consciousness. She places her foot on his neck, pressing down. She is almost _hungry_ to hear him choke for air. She growls. She looks at her trainer, whose expression is unreadable, but she can tell he's not pleased. _You try to clip my wings and this is what you will get,_ she thinks. She wishes she could say them aloud. With scorn.

As the bloodlust begins to abate, the static energy retreats, and she realizes that the other officers have flooded the floor, and she has been yanked away from her opponent's ( _victim's_ ) prone form. One of them shoves her at her trainer, who grabs her tightly, yanks her roughly to his side.

She wants to shrug out of his grasp. She doesn't need him leading her around like a child. She could take him down easily.

At that moment, when the emergency medics swarm around the very injured body on the mats, Natalya realizes how very dangerous she is.

She smiles.


	6. Alone in the Sea

**Subject Age: 13**

There are others.

Others like her.

They've been in the Red Room as long as she has, according to her trainer. Some longer than others.

She wishes she could gawk, could relish in the feeling of  _feeling_  and not be scolded by her trainer to school her features ( _school her brain_ ) to blankness. They all look like they are her age and many of them share the same unreadable mask as Natalya, seated at long metal tables ringed by chairs that would've easily fit in at the prison she'd gone to. There are a few that cannot disguise their surprise. Her trainer leans down, seeing exactly what Natalya has seen, and says quietly, "Those are the weak ones, Natalya."

Does that mean they see her as strong? She hopes so.

Her trainer leads her to an unoccupied seat next to a blue-eyed girl with oily black hair who looks equally as composed as Natalya. A she sits down and her trainer leaves her, she cannot help the feeling of disorientation that follows. She's almost never without a trainer when she's outside of her quarters, but she's careful to remain impassive. She's the strong one here, after all.

That doesn't stop her from darting a look to her left, towards the girl with the blue eyes. One is ringed with fading purple (probably a leftover from training. Natalya knows that particular pain.) and there's a small scar hovering high above her other, slicing just below and into her eyebrow. Then she finally notes that she's not alone in her examination, and that the girl next to her appears to be... sizing her up? That makes Natalya want to sneer.

She wonders if any of them have killed before.

No one is sure of what to do. The silence is heavy and awkward, punctuated only by the occasional metallic screech of chairs across the floor and the deep breathing taught to ensure a slow heart rate. They're strung tighter than piano wires, compressed into their seats by training and ignorance.

Until finally the silence is pierced by the solid voice of the Chief, "You are not alone." Heads swivel and chairs turn in a near-cacophony of noise in comparison to where he's entered the room. He paces between the tables, careful to stare into each set of eyes as he passes. Some turn away, and Natalya's stomach turns when she thinks about what's in store for them.

( _You are always to pay proper attention to your Chief._ )

( _Please, oh god, I won't do it again_ —)

She won't make that same mistake twice.

He continues, "The rest of the recruits have received the same training as you have. From this day forward, you shall be training with like-minded young women, supplemented by individual training." He pauses, allowing his strange words to sink in. "We encourage you all to practice your social skills and get to know your fellow comrades.

"We only have one simple rule: your name is no longer your own. If you are to wholly give yourself to our program, you must submit and earn the name we reward you with. Yourself and all others must refer to you as this name. Punishment for breaking this ordinance will likely be public, and will most certainly be painful and humiliating. Know this.

"We realize the momentous task we are placing at your feet. We would not ask it of you if we did not think that we would see those able rise to the occasion. Giving up your former name and embracing the name that your country has given you will be a step towards realizing ultimate loyalty." He comes to a stop in front of Natalya, meeting her eyes. She will not be the one who looks away first. "Remember," he says, "failure to comply will result in expulsion. From this moment forward, you must remember that you are not irreplaceable."

Natalya feels her gut twist.

The Chief turns and exits the room without a word further.

Trainers Natalya has never seen before approach their trainees, most of them dragging them off chairs ungracefully and then heading towards the door.

Natalya stands before her trainer can get to her, not wanting to look so undignified. She notices the blue-eyed stranger next to her has done the same. The girl has a air of condescension about her, and Natalya can't bring herself to get irritated. She knows that she can take down anyone here and kill them, probably well within five seconds. Empowering knowledge.

As her trainer takes her towards the door, Natalya shoots Blue Eyes a look that clearly states  _When I get the chance, I'm coming for you._

Blue Eyes seems to understand, but looks undeterred. Natalya doesn't like that.

They arrive at her quarters, which are as dank and unappealing as military barracks. A cot that only suffices, and a trunk for her meager clothing. The only evidence of someone living there are textbooks lying open on top of the bed ( _Computer Programming I and II._  They're teaching her how to hack into some of the most secure systems in the world. It's tedious.  _Organic Chemistry._  One word: poisons. At least it's interesting.)

Her trainer brusquely sits her down, speaking before Natasha even has a chance to open her mouth, "Natalya Alianovna Romanova is is nothing more than a disposable placeholder for what you will become, Black Widow."

The Black Widow. She likes the sound of it. ( _The Black Widow spider is renowned for the female spider's cannibalistic mating tendencies._ )

The inclemency of giving up her name hasn't quite hit her yet, all too happy to embrace the Widow. It sounds deadly, intimidating.

The trainer adopts a high-and-mighty pose, his feet set apart, arms cross over his chest. "What is your name?"

Out of habit, distracted and pleased by the presentation of her new name, she automatically replies, "Nat-" Before she can finish, and before she even knows what hit her, she is on the floor, her face throbbing. She sees the gleam of her trainer's brass knuckles in her periphery. Her feels a cut below her eye that is beginning to seep blood.

She failed.

( _You are not irreplaceable._ )

Her anger simmers behind her eyes, the heat giving her such clarity and focus she can't help but enjoy the pure and unaltered rage that flows. The blood that seeps from beneath her eye is like fuel that coats her skin. She feels powerful like this. She doesn't scramble to recover as she may have done in the past when she's been beaten. Instead, she rolls silently to her feet, a look of utter calm in her green eyes.

( _You are not irreplaceable._ )

"I'm disappointed in you, Black Widow," he says, looking her up and down, "We thought that you would be one to succeed."

No. No,  _no,_  she is going to succeed, she can, she's strong, they've told her so. She's unique,  _special,_  she's already  _killed_  for them, that's not fair, they can't—

"Lucky for you, we are willing to give you another chance."

Her whole body sags in relief, because she can show them now. She'll show them exactly what she can do. She can give up her name for them. She can do that easily.

Her trainer seizes her arm, leads her out of her quarters and she knows precisely where they're going. She knew this was coming. The word failure is synonymous with discipline ( _torture_ ). She hates failure with all her being. Despises that it makes her fear. They're giving her another chance; she can't be afraid.

They arrive in a concrete room that has a drain in the middle, and a pressure washer hanging on the wall. It is a room meant to be washed clean. No matter how much water the room is doused with, Natalya can't forget every single time she was dealt discipline in this room. Several times before, she thought she would die in this room, under the heavy hand of one of her trainers, or one of the Red Room guards, with the eerie yellow glow of the incandescent bulb strung overhead.

This time, there is another in the room. One of the other girls from earlier. One whose face was painted with stark surprise. She's naked and on her knees, as it always is in the room.

Natalya sees that she has scars too, some long and ugly, others small and nearly unnoticeable. This girl has failed too.

"Unlike you, Black Widow, this participant has used up all of her chances," her trainer says, almost in response to her thought. "It's disappointing to watch someone we had so much hope for fail to recognize and live up to the privilege of being chosen for the Red Room.

"Our program is a process of becoming. We do not simply hand out mercy, because we know that the enemies of the Republic will show you none. You must work for everything we see fit to give you. Widow," the trainer snaps. She stands at attention. "It's time to earn your name."

"What would you have me do?" she asks, because she will earn this. She'll show them.

"She must die," said her trainer, and the girl's eyes snapped upwards, her breathing audible. "Show me why we give the Black Widow another chance."

The Widow lunges.

The nameless girl surges backwards, away. A mistake.

She drives a shoulder into the girl's ribs, feeling the unmistakable give of at least one broken rib.

The fight is short, pathetic in the worst of ways. It's desperation from the girl—clawing nails, frantic breath, an animal trapped and hoping to flee instead of fight.

Natalya gets the nameless girl into a chokehold, tight, unforgiving. She squirms like an animal caught in a trap, but the Black Widow is unforgiving. Holds tighter. She can hear the girl's heartbeat racing and the scraping of her labored breath, can feel the frantic pulsing of her carotid.

She looks to her trainer. She can end it here, snap her neck, be done with it. ( _Put her out of her misery._ )

" _Earn_ it, Widow."

Putting her out of her misery is not earning it.

The Widow stands, dragging the girl upwards with her. With a violent twist, she throws the girl into the wall. She hits hard, head cracking against the concrete before crumpling to the floor. She's not dead yet. She releases a pathetic, weak, breathy sob, and begins to crawl towards Natalya.

"Please," she wheezes, blood on her lips. "Please."

_Earn it._

The Black Widow delivers a vicious kick to the side of the girl's head, the force knocking her onto her back. The girl lies supine, not bothering to quiet her sobs now. The Widow straddles her chest, using her knees to trap the girl's arms against her ribcage.

Right hook across the girl's face. Blood spatters across the floor.

Left hook. Her nose breaks.

Right hook. Jaw dislocates.

There's a pained moan, and the tears mix with the blood on her face.

_Earn it._

Left.

Right.

Left.

She's stopped making sound, but the wounds are still pulsing, the carotid beating in her neck.

Right.

Left.

Bone crunching. The heavy slap of bloody skin on bloody skin.

Blood coats her fists, her arms, heavy droplets cling to her face, her hair.

Right.

Left.

She can hear her trainer over her shoulder.

Right.

Left.

Right.

Left.

Her hands feel bruised, her knuckles tender, but she keeps going.

_Earn it._

She loses track of the punches. It takes a long time to kill someone with just her fists.

"Black Widow," her trainer says, disrupting the monotony of the sound of fist upon flesh. "Black Widow, she is dead."

The Black Widow halts her motions, realizing the trainer is right. The girl's face is unrecognizable now, a twisted mass of blood and skin. Out of the carnage, she spots the remainder of the girl's tears, cutting through the blood, the salt water nearly invisible amongst the torn flesh.

The Widow looks up. Stands and turns.

"Well done, Black Widow."

She doesn't say anything. She has no voice in the room. She has never said anything in the room. She has screamed, but to plead is to admit weakness.

"You may escort yourself back to your room." Then the trainer leaves.

And there is the Black Widow, alone and bloody. The body of the girl lies so still on the floor, her blood leaking out, dripping down the drain. She marvels that the trainer is letting herself go back to her room. Alone. That's never happened before.

Her body feels weak. Her hands shake, and her body feels raw and exposed. She knows that she will be in agony soon. ( _They will not leave her without discipline. Not after she failed before._ ) But not yet.

Natalya Romanova was a weak shell of a girl.

The Black Widow is strong.

The Widow turns to the door, leaving Natalya Romanova behind in the concrete room, with the blood and the body and yellow light. The Black Widow has emerged, and she plans on leaving Natalya Romanova in that room forever.


	7. Gravitation

**Subject Age: 13 years, 4 months**

Red Wolf.

That is Blue Eyes name. She wears her scars like badges of honor, not symbols of failure. A curious thing. She carries herself with an unnamed confidence that makes almost everyone subtly flinch away.

Everyone except the Black Widow. Because she carries herself with an equal amount of confidence, perhaps with a touch more egotism. A potent combination that makes most of her opponents incredibly wary when the time came to face her. But not the Wolf.

After their first sparring session, a rivalry had developed between the two. Their fighting styles are similar—they both favor cool cunning over brute strength to beat their opponents. However, the Wolf achieves victory by delivering strategically placed blows that slowly incapacitate the opponent while the Widow is known throughout the compound for her uniquely acrobatic-style combat that is quickly becoming the envy of the other students and the trainers alike.

The Widow notices that many of her peers have been attempting to replicate the style, but none of them can quite achieve what she can. Besides, she thinks with an arrogant smile, she's been training in her form of combat since before she could remember.

Today is no different. The red-haired assassin walks in to the gym, early as always, and finds her sparring partner from the assignment sheet posted next to the door.

 _Black Widow_ — _Lioness_

Disappointment that she will not be facing the Wolf that day tweaks for a moment. It's followed quickly by confidence sweeping through her. Pure exhilaration surges. The Lioness is a large girl. Even at their relatively young age, the girl with corn silk hair and violent mahogany eyes towers above the rest of the others at six feet tall, and every inch of those six feet is solidly packed with large muscles. Easily one of the strongest girls the Widow has ever seen.

Her strength and size are her only redeeming qualities. She isn't particularly fast or agile, and the Widow plans to exploit that. She's only sparred with the Lioness once, but she'd been unable to keep pace with the Widow's prehensile skill.

She is the first one to the sparring gym every morning. Not even the Wolf can beat her. She is a naturally early riser, and without having to have an escort to her destination any more ( _a privilege she will never, ever take for granted_ ), she is free to arrive at whatever time she so desires. And most of the time that means 0530 hours when hand-to-hand began at 0630.

In the early hours of dawn, the Widow practices. Usually just simple boxing with punching bags that would leave her knuckles battered and bloody by the time practice officially began. She was tempted to tape them the first time it had happened, the bruised knuckles a slight annoyance. But nothing,  _nothing_ , could beat the look of complete and utter intimidation on the face of her opponent that day when the saw her strut onto the mats with bright red blood running down her hands and a feral look it her eye.

She doesn't allow herself the luxury of tape. She is not irreplaceable, but she will show them that she is unique. She will show them that she is the best. The bloody, bruised knuckles is merely a bold statement to her peers that pain and blood and violence do not scare her.

Today is not one of those days. The Widow calmly does her warm-up stretches like she always does, watching her reflection bend and reach in the wall of mirrors, clad in the skin-tight black suit the trainers had given to her not too long ago. She soon begins to practice a few moves she has picked up from fighting the others—the Wolf in particular. She wishes that she could do weapons training, but the trainers are sure to keep those safe somewhere. Never know what might happen in a facility full of assassins.

A practice dummy, its body a canvas of precision targets, is the subject of the Widow's calculated flurry of kicks and punches to those places on the body that would drop a 200-pound man in seconds. This style is an interesting way to fight, but she much prefers her own aerial fighting. Her blood flows, her heart races, her muscles bunch and release and the exhilaration is amazing in its simple pleasure.

She revels in the physical challenge.

As she jabs her heel into the dummy's ribcage, she hears a chuckle from at least 20 feet behind her. "Your lines are sloppy. You need to be sharper if you want to be effective." Natasha doesn't turn, only stares at the dummy. The Wolf likes to criticize.

"And yet, I've still beaten you more times than you've beaten me when we spar," Widow throws back, finally turning. The Wolf scowls. The Widow grins.

"I'm the only one who has beaten you. So," The Wolf says, "I'm adjusting to your peculiar fighting style."

"You'd like to think so."

The Wolf shakes her head. "Always with the pride, Widow. I find your lack of humility refreshing."

"When you've got nothing to be humiliated about, it's hard to act like you do, Wolf."

"I was under the impression they were attempting to teach you that."

Widow laughs, "You're a funny one." The Wolf is the only one she considers a match for her. She is smaller than Widow, only by an inch or two. She keeps her black hair short, the tips brushing her ears. Sometimes it falls over her face, but she tosses it back in place with a practice flick of her head. Her blue eyes are hard, but that's nothing new. All of her peers seem hard.

"I aim to please," Wolf says, lips quirking into a reluctant smile. "Are we sparring today? They seem to like pitting us against one another."

"They're just sick of watching everyone I fight get their ass handed to them on a silver platter." Widow stops a beat, walking further from the Wolf. "I got put with Lioness today."

Wolf actually looks disappointed. She turns away, headed back towards the sparring assignments.

The Widow doesn't watch her go.


	8. Why

**Subject Age: 13 years, 11 months**

"En pointe, Widow."

The room is such that two people are insignificant in its space. Usually it is less daunting when the full troupe practices. Now, she is alone beneath the dancer's critiquing eyes. Every wall is a mirror. Every step echoes. Every word a poignant sound. The dancer stands with arms folded. Impatience.

Ligaments, tendons, muscles, bones- they all hurt. All struggle. Pure exhaustion is no stranger to her. But ballet gives her new walls to hit. When she was younger, the strain hadn't seemed so much. It was tiring, but it was easy ( _it was release_ ). Listen to the flow of the music.  _Assamblé. Batterie. Brisé. Adagio, Widow._

Now, it is different. Endless. Impossible. She fights to keep her breath as she forces trembling legs to tense, pull, lift, lift,  _lift_  -

Her ankles give way under the strain, and she hits the floor, bent over and shaking so hard her teeth chatter. Her legs feel so painful they're going numb. She tries to find the thrill she gets when she uses her body to its full potential, but it cowers behind the pain.

The dancer sighs. Disappointment. "On your feet, Widow."

 _Can't_. The word sticks in the back of her throat, where it would most assuredly stay. Always stay. She bites her lip, tries to not scream as she lifts herself up. She stands on swollen feet. She can feel the blood beneath the goddamned pointe shoes, soaking her toes. She can feel her toenails separating from the nail beds. She gives up trying to regulate her breathing—every attempt winds up a choked gasp, wet and suffocating, deflating in her chest like a punctured balloon. The sound echoes through the room. She can't remember how many hours this lesson has lasted. It feels like days.

( _Leg work. Endless cycles. Arabesque. Battement en rond. Grand jeté. Fouetté. Fouetté jeté. Girls your age aren't normally capable of pointe, Widow, but you have to be better. Remember, you are not alone in here. You have to be the best. Pain is secondary, Widow. En pointe._ )

Her body wants to stop. It shakes, screams, nerves simultaneously aflame and numb.

The dancer has not moved. "En pointe."

The command marches through her, she hates it with everything she has. Every bleeding appendage, every swollen joint hates.

Her toes have gone completely numb and felt frozen with inexplicable cold. Her calves burn in a constant cramp. She lifts her head—a magnificent feat—and meets her own eyes in the mirror. She sees the look of an exhausted animal, run ragged by a pursuing predator. She begins to rise on her toes, and she doesn't miss the blood that now stains the wood of the floor. Her pointe shoes are ruined. She can't think about breaking in new ones, not now, not when there is already so much pain.

The shaking begins again, she she is unable to hold the scream in her lungs. She muffles the sound, bites her tongue so hard she tastes metal and salt. More blood. Her muscles feel like they're ripping themselves apart.

She wants to stop.  _Needs_  it more than her next breath.

She tries to make the rest of her body take up as much of the stain as it can manage—she feels bile rise in her throat as she keeps lifting, tightening...

The moment she rises on her toes, she feels the brief relief of accomplishment, followed by the panic as her legs give way once again. She lands on her side, and maintains enough presence of mind to turn her face to the floor before she begins to heave.

The dancer says nothing while her student writhes on the floor. Once the Widow is gripped by stillness, a hushed command, "That's all for today. You are dismissed." The dancer's footsteps whisper away, and the Widow is left, covered in blood and bile on the floor. The humiliation and desperation that races through her as she realizes she cannot get up rips through her.

She tries, but her body refuses to move.

Fear. She can't afford it, but she feels its coldly burning grasp anyway.

She hears nothing but a quiet buzz in her ear. Gray and white flit on the edges of her vision. The only indication that another person has entered the room is the feeling of being lifted.

She can only stare up at the face of her rescuer.

Wolf. She carries the Widow without a problem, bring her back to her quarters. The feeling of vertigo overwhelms her, and she is barely holding back another round of heaving.

Not a single word is uttered as the Wolf places Widow on the cot, begins to unsheathe her feet from the now very red pointe shoes. The Widow winces inadvertently as her raw and bloody feet are exposed to the air. She is so utterly exhausted that she does not protest Wolf's tender care. Her gentle hands are more preferable to Widow's own rough paws as she feels cotton padding embrace her weeping feet. "Your feet don't look good, but it's nothing that won't heal in time."

Her lungs heave. Her feet sting. Her stomach twists.

"If you feel the need to throw up, there's a trash can right here." Wolf moves the bin to Widow's side. It's all she can do to to roll her face towards the bin, doesn't hesitate to wretch into the can, her body convulsing painfully when nothing is expelled. Tears burn from the ducts, and her mind races. Absolute lack of control swells through her, and she hates it. Hates her body for turning against her.

She is unable to roll herself onto her back. She remains twisted over the side as Wolf finishes dressing her feet.

"Why?" Widow croaks. She dreads the answer. She can't fathom what the Wolf will want from her in return. She cannot owe her. In the short time she's had peers, she's learned that much. Especially violent, often psychopathic peers. She hopes Wolf is none of those things.

Wolf stands, walking towards the door. Widow doesn't need to elaborate her question. "For lack of a better phrase, I'm not heartless."

The Wolf leaves, and Widow can only stare after her.  _I'm not heartless._  The words twist, bend like shadows in her mind. The slippery morality struggles to find purchase in her preconditioned mind that refuses to acknowledge societal moral constraint. She grasps frantically for understanding, the tendrils dance just out of her reach. Teasing and taunting. Widow doesn't understand why she can't.

The last threads of her consciousness fade, grappling over an ethical concept she cannot hope to understand. Down the road she'll realize how poignant those words were.

_I'm not heartless._


	9. Epoch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is dub-con/non-con in this chapter.

**Subject Age: 14**

"Sex," says the instructor, pacing in front of a room full of blank faces, "is a weapon. There is no emotion. Anyone else who tells you differently is most likely trying to manipulate you, or too naive to know the truth. 'Making love' is just an illusion. A naive illusion. You should all know by now that love is for children."

The Widow absorbs the information eagerly. Another weapon, no matter how bizarre, she will welcome with open arms. Their instructor has just finished explaining  _exactly_  how to torture a man or a woman with pleasure. Some of the methods seemed rather strange to her, but she won't complain if they got results.

"Now, all of you have the power to obtain exactly what you need from both men and women using sexual persuasion." She stops in front of a seated Black Widow, eyeing her up and down as if she were a piece of meat. She doesn't squirm under the scrutiny, but she cannot deny the faint tremor of discomfort in her chest. "Stand up."

The command isn't questioned,  _never_  questioned, and she stands.

"Please face your peers." The Widow sits in the front row of the class, and so she turns, just as her instructor asked. Eyes stare blankly. She doesn't whither with the weight of the gazes upon her. She sees the Wolf not too far from where she sits. Her small mouth is quirked into what looks like the subtlest of smirks.

The Widow resists the childish urge to stick her tongue out at her.

The sharpness of the instructor's voice cuts into her diverted focus, "Your peer is a prime example of what the opposite sex likes to see."

Widow widens her eyes, startled. She swallows and looks at the instructor, not saying a word. She feels the pride of being a 'prime example', but a foreign feeling, a mixture of shame and something else, squeezes in next to the pride. It is similar to the roiling mass that rose when the instructor had examined her like a fattened calf. She doesn't like it. It makes her uncomfortable. She places her hands behind their back, lacing her fingers together and clenching.

The instructor walks around her, like surveying cattle at auction. "Scrutinize her. What is it about Widow's body that makes it appealing?"

Now the other girls in the room were studying her, and the Widow cannot help but slowly,  _slowly_  and as subtly as she could manage, shifts on her feet. She is relived that no one has noticed her weak moment, but they are still staring, eyes sweeping over her body, their gazes so heavy they almost felt like a physical touch.

White Eagle speaks up first after the long, pregnant pause, "Her breasts." Widow had been surprised they hadn't chosen Eagle to stand before the class as the 'prime example'. After all, according to their teacher, blond hair and blue eyes are an attractive combination, and a curvaceous waist paired with a stick-thin frame are rare bonuses.

"Excellent. Something men, especially, will look for is large breasts." The instructor stands next to her. Widow tries to repress a blush. "You all are still young, and thus your breasts will grow with time."

The instructor moves along her body, and Widow is forced to watch quietly, like a tame pet, as each girl in the class listens and critiques with rapt attention and eerie satisfaction. Points of strength. Points of improvement. ( _Strong: Breasts. Waist. Butt. Weak: Legs. Back. Hair._ )

After a disturbing lesson on fetishes, the Widow is allowed to sit. She doesn't know why, but she feels exposed. Raw. Humiliated.

"Now that you have learned the basics, report to your quarters for an in-depth learning and demonstration."

 _Demonstration?_  The rest of the girls filter out the back of the room without further prompting. The Widow is last. She sees that Wolf has waited for her.

"You waited," states Widow, "Why?" The two are walking towards their quarters. They'd learned that their rooms were quite close together.

"Wanted to wish you luck."

Confusion brushes her conscious, "Again, why?"

"According to the others, the first time is somewhat significant." The Wolf shrugs, as though she doesn't quite understand what the others have said. That makes the two of them.

Widow snorts, "And how would they know?"

"Lioness smuggles things in from the outside. I have no idea how she does it, but we all know it. Apparently everyone who uses her wares think they have some sort of a greater worldview."

"That's awfully pretentious. And precious."

Widow has reached her door. It's open and she spies a young man sitting on her bed, and one of the female instructors in the corner. Widow swallows thickly, suddenly feeling as though she has a brick in her stomach.  _The first time is somewhat significant._

Wolf smirks, a combination of sadness and knowing. "Like I said, good luck."

A deep breath. "You too, I guess." She walks in. She recognizes the young man distantly, and realizes he was one of the cadets who watched her beat down the biggest guy in his unit about two years ago. He's attractive, she supposes. Black hair, amber-brown eyes, a strong cleft jaw, broad shoulders, an interesting expression on his face. Her mind, conditioned with training, immediately flips through the possibilities, settles on surprise and lust.

The female instructor does not move from her corner. "The Room has recruited younger males so that this process would be more comfortable."

She nods. Completely silent.

"It's time to practice some of the concepts you've learned. We will finish with your first penetration." The Widow cannot hide her nervousness. Her fear the knots her stomach. Her fingers are tingling, and she's afraid that her hands will start to shake soon. "The first you will learn is the art of oral sex on a male."

She  _just_ learned about this. It won't be difficult, so she nods. Completely silent.

"On your knees, Widow, and remove his pants."

She does so. Completely silent.

"Take the shaft in your mouth. Take it as deep as you can."

She almost gags, but she does not stop. She distantly hears her subject's breathing quicken.

"What you cannot fit in your mouth, stroke with your hand. Use your spittle as lubricant."

She does so, even though she feels subservient, and  _that_  she despises more than almost anything. It's all she can do to keep moving, keep bobbing her head, moving her hand without wanting to choke.

"Apply more pressure. Swirl your tongue around the head."

She complies. Completely silent. She feels disgusted and used, and she can't figure out why. ( _Why did I have to learn this? Everything was so simple before._ ) The man whose legs she kneels between moans audibly.

The uncomfortable silence yawns outward, interrupted by the increasingly frequent cries of pleasure from the man in front of Widow. A sudden wet, warm burst fills her mouth, and she doesn't stop the gag, and pulls away. She's about to spit the salty, sticky liquid that sits atop her tongue, but the words of her instructor stops her, "No. Swallow it."

Not the hardest thing she'd ever done. So why does she feel so reluctant?

Her throat contracts, and it slides down slowly, and she feels as if she has swallowed a raw egg. She stomach twists at the mental imagery.

She kneels on the floor, eyes on the threadbare maroon carpet. She feels like she's down there forever, sitting there on the rough carpet which makes her knees feel raw. She breaths slowly, acknowledgement of what she's about to do stalling in the back of her head. "This lesson is not about torture tactics just yet," the instructor says finally, "this is about getting the experience, so we will end this session with penetration right now. On the bed, Widow." She hears the instructor quietly ask her counterpart if he can get hard again. She hears him answer ( _reluctantly?_ ) in the affirmative.

Widow's joints lock in place.  _The first time is somewhat significant._  Acid burns at her throat, everything in her is telling her she does not want this, but she does not listen; she crawls onto the bed, where her partner has made room for her.

"Lie on your back. Cadet Salevsky, please divest her of her clothing." Cadet Salevsky looks wary of the instructor, and Widow thinks it's probably because she was still in the room, but does as he is told. Widow lies corpse still, only moving when he had to remove her panties. The cool air makes goosebumps jump up on her skin. She sees that the cadet lost his shirt sometime between when she had been on her knees until now.

"Spread your legs."

She does so, and never in her life had she felt more humiliated, more disgusted, and more vulnerable. Not even when she's been completely naked and been whipped, or burned, or water-boarded. Never. The bile prods her throat once more. She tilts her head away from the others in the room, stares at the gray concrete wall.

She feels him prod her, feels him pull back, and the hushed, "She's... not wet."

Widow shudders.

"Go anyway. She needs to learn how to become aroused when she's not physically attracted to her target."

She closes her eyes. If her lessons today had been learned, this would hurt. She figures she should probably brace herself. ( _Without proper arousal, penetration can be painful, even if intercourse has been completed prior. A first experience of intercourse will always be painful, as the vaginal canal has not experienced any prior stretching, and the hymen must be broken. The experience can be clinically different for any female._ )

She anticipates the hurt, tenses herself. But it doesn't come. She looks up at the cadet. His face is frozen in indecision, fighting some internal battle. He must see something in her face because he leans back, looking into the corner where the instructor watches stonily. "I can't do this. This is too fucked up for words."

"You volunteered for this mission, Cadet."

"That was before I knew I'd be signing up to rape a teenage girl!"

The instructor stares him down. Crosses her arms. Adopts an authoritarian pose. "Do I need to write up a citation for insubordination, Cadet Salevsky?"

She sees his throat contract. "N-... No ma'am." He goes back to hovering over her, his weight resting on his forearms. She's still looking up at him. His amber eyes burn with regret. He leans down, and she thinks he's going to kiss her.  _Are first kisses significant too?_  But he doesn't. He leans down until his breath warms the shell of her ear. "I'm really sorry," he whispers, so quietly Widow thinks that the instructor probably didn't hear it. She is not confused by it. He's going to hurt her, and she knows it. She hears him say something to himself, she can't quite make it out, but it sounds something like "Shit, my mother taught me better than this..." That truly confuses her.

Then the pain becomes all she knows.


	10. Stumbling over the Hidden

**Subject Age: 14 years, 3 months**

_Erskine._

_Erskine. Erskine. Erskine.  
_

_The name is repeated several times, hushed and muffled, as though underwater. Something about a series of serums. Will it work? They don't seem certain. Can't replicate the original formula. No guarantees that it will work. They don't know how the original procedure was performed.  
_

_She is laying down. On a hard surface, not perfectly parallel to the ground. Why is everything so foggy?  
_

_"Place the electrodes." This voice is clearer. Masculine and feminine at the same time. She thinks she sees someone in a medical mask lean over her. None of the lines are definite. Points look like pillowed clouds.  
_

_There is sudden pain in her head. Her skull is being split open, parted like the Red Sea, and she feels like Death's own hand is squeezing around her brain. Her throat opens, her lungs heave, but no sound comes out. A scream doesn't come. Her diaphragm struggles, heaves and writhes, but the only thing she can manage is a pained, hissing breath. Suddenly, there's a flash, and she's looking down on herself. Sweat making her skin glitter unnaturally, wild eyes, hair matted from thrashing. And two silver bullet-looking objects protruding from her temples. Blood seeps from her head.  
_

_Another flash and the image is gone. She's staring up at a black sky framing a white sun.  
_

_Needles. So many needles she cannot count them all. They're all going into her, her arms, her legs, her chest, her neck, her head and she's terrified. What are they giving her? She tries to struggle but she finds she's tied down.  
_

_They shove something between her teeth that tastes metallic. She can't move her head.  
_

_She hears them say that they believe channeling electricity through the body is the key to activating the serum.  
_

_Then they just barely touch a electrical prod to the metal object in her mouth. A jolt of pain, waves of some invisible entity rocketing through her. She's immobile, the straps hold her down as the electrical pulse snakes through her, trying to make her something she's not.  
_

Her manner of waking is but a twitch. Her eyes are wide, and a hand clutching the air as if to stop herself from falling. The concrete ceiling of her room is the image she wakes up to. She feels sticky with sweat, and her breathing is labored.

It isn't normal. Not routine.

A nightmare. They taught them how to defend their minds against terrors of unconsciousness. She hadn't had one in years.

She blinks, sees the afterimage of herself, strapped to a table with needles in her body and electrodes driven into her brain. She lies still a few moments before paranoia sweeps through her, and she tears off the sheets. She stares down at her body, halfway anticipating seeing pocked needle marks all over herself. She sees nothing. Her hands fly to her temples. No open wounds with bloody electrodes. She lets out a shaky breath. Scrubs a hand over her face.

She looks over to the digital clock bolted to the wall. An hour until dawn.

Her mind races, so she does what she always does to calm her mind. She makes a list. Her schedule for the day. They hand them out at the beginning of the week.

0630, report to communal hall for inspection and to be fed.

At 0700, hand-to-hand combat observation and technique.  _The cadets didn't mess with her anymore unless they're required to by her combat trainer. She could watch combat forms in peace and enjoy their intimidation._

At 1000, torture and interrogation tactics.  _She dislikes when she has to use 'sexual persuasion' to get her answers. She doesn't see why she can't just do it like all the rest of her training. Surely she's done things far worse than pleasure answers out of someone._

At 1300 hours, break for food.

At 1330 hours, advanced computer programming technique.  _She struggles to stay awake in this one. She feels like she will scream if she has to enter one more freaking command in binary into a goddamn computer system protected by the most complex firewall they could come up with._

At 1700 hours, drug resistance training. _She hates how they make her feel. How everything is foggy and crystalline sharp at the same time. The panic that invariably rises when she realizes her limbs only sluggishly respond to the simplest commands. Some of them she doesn't respond to at all anymore._

At 2000 hours, report to communal hall for evening inspection and to be fed. _  
_

At 2030 hours, recreation time.  _'Recreation' is a little generous for what happened. They were closely monitored and had a shitty list of activities to choose from. Widow normally retreated from the group to one of the vacant gyms to practice. Wolf often joined her._

At 2130 hours, return to quarters. _  
_

At 2200 hours, sleep. _  
_

Her mind has slowed enough that she can control her breathing, feel the sweat evaporate and be replaced with chilled gooseflesh. The images are fading from her mind, becoming more and more difficult to recall. She yanks the covers back over herself. She rolls over and stretches her arms out in front of her to the point of trembling with tension, and—

And feels something. Deep in the pit of her stomach, tight and cold and unwelcome. Anxiety. No- worry...  _no._

Fear.

Solid,  _certain_ as an appointment she mustn't be late for.

She sits up, grabs the edge of her thin, hard mattress. She runs through the list of possible threats, but dismisses them all. There are no such thing as threats in the Red Room. Their facility was one of the most secure facilities in Russia. Nothing tangible to be afraid of comes to her mind, and soon the feeling is fading. A phantom in the night, it was gone as suddenly as it had come. But the confusion lingers.

Her own pride refuses to acknowledge what just occurred. Human emotions are slippery, fundamentally unpredictable variables. The fear was an anomaly. She's not naive enough to believe that she is perfectly immune to human emotion, to the chemically-triggered tricks that fluttered through her brain.

Her psychology instructors told her several times stress could have rather... interesting effects on a psyche. ( _Stress can start to fray your edges long before you're aware of it. Be prepared for some odd moments. You may feel... outside yourself every once in a while. The most difficult thing to master is how to manage the stress and the damages._ )

She glances again at the clock. Thirty two minutes have passed.

The cold feeling in her stomach returns and becomes ice because she has never just  _lost_  time like that before.

She rolls again. Sleep is safer. No thinking. Just pure blank nothingness.

Later the next night, as she lies in bed, and her eyes drift closed and she feels the strings of awakening being snipped, on the black canvas of her lids she sees the eyes of the doctor staring down on her, the electrodes in her temples, the needles pressed into her skin, the blinding white sun throwing shadows into corners of a room she's sure she's never been in before.

And she hears the name again.

Erskine. Erskine. Erskine.


	11. Prime

**Subject Age: 15**

She hadn't expected to be nervous. Not the type of nervous that would result from doubting her skills, ( _because the Widow never doubts herself_ ) but from the knowledge that  _this is it_ , and failure is absolutely not an option. Her first mission is nothing complex—some government official who needed to be removed. ( _T_ _hey told her to not ask why she had to kill him. Never ever ask why._ ) No interrogation, no actual spying or intel gathering. Just a quick in and out hit.

She knows it's technically illegal to 'mess around' with someone who's her age, but as she's learned over the years, illegality doesn't exactly apply to her. And many people ignore the law anyway. She has a mission, and to hell with the red tape. The Widow doesn't blink twice when the obviously uncomfortable receptionist tells her that the ambassador will be waiting for her in his room. For a 'talk'. She could've snorted with ridicule, but she doesn't, maintains the mask of aloof prostitute. Cheeks aflame, voice weak and stuttering, the receptionist won't ask questions, and that's enough.

She fiddles with the cinch on her trench coat, covering the scanty outfit hidden underneath as she enters the apartments. The target waits in the bedroom, and she immediately matches his face to the profile she was given. ( _Approximately 170 cm tall, 110-120 kilogram weight class, age 64, gray hair, hazel eyes..._ ) His age shows, with features sagged and drooping, but his expression becomes hungry when he sees his 'entertainment' walk in.

Widow doesn't allow herself to be disgusted by his scrutiny. She pulls the belt on her coat, shrugs it off her shoulders, feels the cool air hit her skin as the beige covering pools at her feet.

His expression reads that he is pleased with what he sees. The number she's squeezed herself into is a leather corset of red and black that makes her hair look like a flame. Black garters support see-though thigh-high stockings. She's balanced expertly on precarious 5 and a half inch red stiletto heels that make her ankles hurt and her arches ache. ( _Looking beautiful is only a part of manipulating the target. It is not practical to think in terms of vanity when it comes to your opinion of your own attractiveness._ )

He wastes no time in grabbing her hand and pulling her down onto the bed until she is seated beside him. He touches her lips, smiles, "You are  _beautiful_ ," he says.

She feels her teeth grinding, puts on the guise of the smiling, flattered courtesan, but inside she's seething. She doesn't like to be touched by anyone, let alone someone as repulsive as this man. She wishes she had more leeway in how she got to kill him. Alas, she has incredibly specific parameters as to how he will be dispatched. It won't be beneficial for her to go overboard, to go  _against_  her orders, on her very first assignment.

She forces out a girlish giggle at his attention, and he obviously likes it. She bites her lower lip coyly ( _draw him in_ ), says, "Turn around."

His smiles fades minutely. "I'm sorry?"

She gives him a hooded look, dark and smoldering, trying to earn his trust through seduction. "I want to try something. You'll like it." She's pleasantly surprised with how husky and sexy her voice sounds. She's been trying to master it in her acting classes for weeks.

He raises an eyebrow, but she can see the dilated pupils and knows that he will obey. He twists slowly, exposing his back to her ( _gain his trust_ ) as he kneels on the bed on his hands and knees. She's glad she doesn't have to toy with him before his death. She doesn't know if she could have handled having sex with this man.

The Widow reaches into her hair—expertly coiffed, in a style that was popular with the Russian courtesans—and slowly slides out a garishly jeweled pin. Crusted with faceted obsidian stones and shining red rubies, she thinks that it's maybe the prettiest little thing she's ever seen. She likes to think that it's like her- unimposing and pretty on the surface, but with the potential to kill. She internally chastises herself for thinking herself beautiful. ( _Looking beautiful is only a part of manipulating the target. It is not practical to think in terms of vanity when it comes to your opinion of your own attractiveness._ )

"Close your eyes," she says.

"Am I at your mercy, Valeriya?" he asks, and Widow almost doesn't hear him use her fake name. He closes his eyes.

It takes her less than a second to locate the precise spot where her weapon would do the most damage. She slowly flips the pin in her hand so that the sharp end stabs toward the prone man on the bed. "Yes. You are," she says, playing along in that voice that she's so proud of. She leans over his exposed back ( _take out the target_ ) and in one swift motion, plunges it into the base of his skull, where she knows it will split his spinal cord and lodge in his cerebellum. An instantaneous death with little bleeding. Quick and efficient. The lights of the bedroom glisten off the jewels, still buried in the neck of her mark, just below his hairline.

She follows the directions to the letter. ( _destroy evidence that you were there_ ) Replacing her trench coat, she checks his pulse, does not find one, checks his pupils to make sure there is no response to light. None. She drags the body up the bed, and literally tucks him in. She takes a step back, and sees that it seriously appears that he is only asleep. She shuts off the lights in the bedroom and leaves, headed for the apartment door. But something makes her stop.

She looks around, nothing is amiss. She knows the hit was carried out without an issue. Without knowing why, she reaches into the pocket of her trench coat, and pulls out the jeweled pin. Her instructions had been specific. Take the pin, dispose of it in a trash can no less than ten blocks from the target's residence. But she doesn't want to throw out the little bit of jewelry. She's not a greedy girl, not vain, and the thought of jewelry doesn't draw her in or anything. But she can't help but admire the deep obsidian, polished pristine so that she can almost see her self reflected on the black surface. The rubies glitter, the facets throwing off such light and shine she trails a fingernail over the surface.

There's only a slight hesitation as she raises the pin back to her hair, and slides the wiped pin back into her hair. The small act of defiance feels good, a balm to her rigid soul.

With that, she strides out of the room. The secretary is gone, as the profile had said she always was when the ambassador's toys came to be played with. She doesn't see anyone until she reached the elevator in the main hall. A middle-aged woman is inside and held the door for Widow.

The number for the first floor is already lit up, so she stands with her hands loose at her sides, and in the quiet she realizes her fingers are tingling with dissipating adrenaline. It is the first rush of nerves she's felt in a long time.

"Isn't it a bit late for you to be out by yourself?" the woman asks. She sounds kind.

The Widow doesn't answer. She stares straight ahead, counting the floors as they pass, her minuscule act of defiance shining in her mind.


	12. Impossibility

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Molnija_ is the phonetic Russian for lightning. It was so close to Mjolnir, and that was a hoot, so I just had to stick it in.

**Subject Age: 15 years, 9 months**

She waits quietly in the dark, her sharp ears listening for the guards to pass by her room. She can hear their footfalls beyond the thick metal door and concrete wall. She lays motionless in her bed until the footfalls fade. The clock tells her that the guards will be changing shifts, and she will have a five minute window.

She whips off her covers, revealing her black, skin-tight suit. She's been looking forward to getting out for days, and she was prepared when she went to bed. She moves quickly. The clock is ticking. She carefully opens the door, steps out into the vacant hall. She looks upwards, towards the vent that is her ticket to freedom. The rungs are wide, perfect for her nimble fingers.

She swings her arms back, crunches her legs,  _leaps_  for all she's worth, and finds purchase on the unsteady vent. The screws protest with inaudible groans at the added weight, but they hold until Widow uses a thumbnail to unscrew two of them. The vent falls open on it's hinges, and she easily crawls up into the ventilation system.

The girls have a policy for everyone sneaking out: you better be pretty damned good at it and not get caught, or don't come at all. And the Black Widow is very,  _very_ good. She knows these aluminum tunnels are notorious for creaking, so she slides along slowly on her belly,  _like a penguin_  she always thinks wryly.

She remembers the turns easily.  _Five meters, then right. Thirty meters, then left. Forty-three meters, then right. Climb up five stories. Continue straight. Kick out vent cover._

The vent tumbles to the ground, just a few feet from the opening in the imposing brick wall and she slithers down the six foot drop to the grass. The dark sky watches with a crescent moon nearly at the zenith of the sky as a red-headed super spy skitters across the grass with grace that shouldn't be possible for someone her age. She sticks to the shadows, the blind spots of the cameras outside of the facility. She dances around the places where she knows there are pressure sensors

She wriggles herself underneath the chain link fence, topped with vicious-looking razor wire. It's electrified, but this back part is almost always left off due to circuitry issues they seem to not want to spend the money to fix. She could almost laugh at the horribly funny situation. They spend so much on security and can't even make sure the fence's electrical charge is working and is properly sutured to the ground at the back of the facility. Gross negligence, almost.

She doesn't pay attention to her keepers' inattentiveness right now. She needs to move. Like a rabbit, she darts into the trees flanking the facility as a giddy grin tinges her lips. She's out. Now it's time to have some fun.

The closest big city to the facility is Surgut, and it's about 20 minutes away, if she runs. And run she will, as she digs her feet into the soft earth and bolts forward, setting a brisk pace towards the city. The sliver of moon and billions of stars overhead dimly light her path, one she's taken many times to get to the city. She sometimes finds it hard to believe that they can escape so easily, but she always passes it off on luck and skill.

She recognizes she's getting close when she can't see so many stars. The light pollution makes it impossible, and she looks to the horizon, sees the sky becoming a lighter purple.

She's close.

She stays out of view of the main road. Seeing a teenage girl sprinting along the side of the highway will raise some eyebrows. She runs through the trees, like a flitting ghost, feels the moisture in the air in her lungs, the bark roughly brushing past her, branches whipping at her face as she continues her headlong run. She's sweating and breathing hard, but running for miles is easy now.

The outskirts are where she finally slows. It begins with small suburbs, and she quickly skirts through those, and through the warehouse districts, headed for downtown, where the rest of the girls are. And where all the action is.

They've all decided to meet at some club called Molnija. Lightning. No one can figure out how Lioness has so many connections on the outside to find these clubs.

She spots Wolf outside the brick building, the doorway guarded by a burly-looking bouncer, she grins at the other girl. Wolf has been growing out her hair on command from her trainers, and she makes her distaste for it well-known. Even now, she doesn't wear her shoulder-length locks loose—it's pulled back in a slick french braid. Her attire is exactly what will get them into the club. An ice blue haltered cocktail dress makes her eyes look electric, and barely even constitutes a dress considering the lack of fabric used, showing off so much of the Wolf's pale skin that she looks ethereal and alluring. She looks more like a Blue Wolf than a Red.

"You look good," Widow says on approach, and she's barely even winded by now. The red hair isn't at her preferred length, the heavy curves reaching well past her shoulders. It's messy and she runs a hand through the strands, taming the flyaways. Wolf hands her an elastic without a word. Widow grins.

There's a glimmer of humor in Wolf's eyes, something rare, and Widow never sees it when they're inside. "Thanks. I'd say the same, but what you're wearing doesn't exactly scream sexy," she says, holding out a black garment bag.

Widow figures they're probably wearing stolen clothes, but she doesn't care as she reaches for the zipper. "I tend to think that I can make this look work," she says with an air of confidence and a twisted smirk. The suit does an excellent job of absorbing moisture and dispelling it, keeping her immensely cool, but she's not afraid to admit the thing makes her feel suffocated after she's been in it too long. She trains in it all day, every day, so her skin never sees daylight when she's training. The skimpy outfits they end up wearing are a welcome change of pace.

The silky green fabric that tumbles out makes her smile. The dress is similar in cut to Wolf's except Widow's is strapless, showing off shoulders toned by years of intense training. Tiny gems adorn the tight skirt, and she feels like a little green flame when she finally slides it on in the darkness outside the club. "Got some shoes for me or am I going to have to wear these?" She gestures down to her combat boots which came off with the suit.

Wolf rolls her eyes, "Do you always have to underestimate me?" She tosses a pair of silver heels in Widow's direction. "It gets annoying." They aren't the prettiest ones she's ever worn, a relatively low heel with an unexciting t-strap, but she doesn't care much as she slips them on. "Makeup?" Wolf offers.

Widow contemplates the small offering of eyeliner and mascara Wolf has produced from her clutch, nods. It doesn't take long to apply. The tiny hand mirror isn't ideal, but she makes do, winging the black eyeliner and applying a thick layer of mascara to her lashes.

"Let's go fucking party," Widow finally says, replacing the makeup in the clutch.

She hesitates before placing her last item, the one she brought with her. She's about to toss it into a trash can, which she should've done months ago on that first mission, but on second thought, she withdraws the red-and-black jeweled pin from a pocket on her suit.  _This is it_ , she thinks.  _I can't keep this any more_. She's hidden it for months, and there's been missions since that first one which she'd completely flawlessly, but she just doesn't want to part with it. But she knows she has to, and she resolves to throw it away at the end of the night as she slides it into the rather sloppy bun she's put her hair in. Just one last time. She doesn't care that it doesn't match the rest of her outfit. She's feeling rebellious, and the pin just feels right.

Wolf voices her agreement for scoping out some fine specimens of the opposite gender, but she doesn't miss the pin. "Where did you get that?" No maliciousness in her tone, just curiosity.

Widow bristles slightly, because she knows how good an actor Wolf is and she could just be getting her to blab about not completely following orders. But she wants to tell her. For some reason she does not understand, she... trusts Wolf. That sentiment nearly blows Widow off her feet. Trust is something she was never taught, and didn't think that she had the capacity for until this moment. She had considered her inability to trust an absolute strength. "That ambassador that was killed a few months ago."

Widow's answer is vague, but sufficient. She knows Wolf has been on missions too. She'll know what she means. "That's dangerous," Wolf points out, still sounding non-judgmental, but Widow still registers a note of surprise.

"Thanks, I wasn't aware of that," Widow bites back sarcastically.

Wolf's tone is no longer curious. "You need to get rid of it. After tonight, throw it away. They can't find you with it, or who knows what they'll do."

"Is that a hint a hint of worry I hear, Wolf?" the redhead jests playfully, but Wolf remains stony.

"This isn't a joke, Widow. You could be in seriously deep shit if they find out."

The Widow grits her teeth, says, "I don't need to be looked after, Wolf. I can take care of myself just fine."

Wolf looks incredulous. "Evidently not! Why the hell didn't you just dispose of it like they told you to?" She didn't need to know the fine details to take educated guesses as to what the mission orders were.

Widow hesitates, and then, another thing she wasn't sure she could truly do, she tells the truth, "I don't really know."

Her companion runs a worried hand over her hair, closing her eyes and then opening them. She stands right in front of Widow, and she notices for the first time that they are looking eye to eye, which almost never happened since Wolf was so short. "After tonight, you're tossing it. If you don't, I will." She walks past Widow, towards the club entrance. "Now come on. We're late."

"Why the hell do you keep helping me?" Widow asks, all urgency as she whirls to face Wolf. She honest-to-god can not figure out the true reason for Wolf's... kindness. There is no other word for it. The only word she can really use for Wolf is  _friend_. She doesn't have another word, in any language, that aptly describes Wolf. She's only read about 'friend', seen definitions of 'friend', but never experienced 'friend'.

Wolf only grins in that condescending way that only the Widow can also manage. "For someone who is as intelligent as you, I can't believe you haven't figured it out yet."

"The only solution I've thought of wouldn't make sense." Friends. Trust. All foreign and not to be dabbled with. ( _Trust breeds mediocrity. Friendship is only a tool to be used, much like sexuality, but a friendship can sometimes yield even more than seduction._ )

"Except that you're right."

Silence falls over the alley, the only sound is bass vibrating from the club, the sounds of a vibrant city in the distance. Despite the uncertainty and the  _fear_  of what this might mean, Widow says, "You realize this means we're completely fucked, right?"

Wolf smiles, "Completely."

It's not perfect, and it's not normal, but there it is, as the girls wearing false clothes and fake names waltz into the club under the guise of something they can never hope to be.


	13. So Far Away

**Subject Age: 16**

The cold is suffocating. She breathes in the frozen air, snowflakes biting her skin. The snow crunches beneath her feet. She's not wearing any shoes. The instructors had dragged them out of bed in the middle of the night, and they weren't given a change of clothes. Many of the girls had been wearing nothing but tank tops and panties. Widow thanked her luck that she'd at least worn pants to bed that night, but it still did nothing to protect her from the fierce Siberian cold.

She's standing with ten other girls, and she's sad that Wolf is not among them. Half of them have begun to shiver, and White Eagle's lips have begun to turn blue. She has a sinking feeling that if she could see everyone's toes, there would be varying stages of blue to black. She doesn't quite feel it that badly yet. Or maybe she's just numb. She can't really figure it out.

"Your future missions may require you to survive in unbelievable conditions, with very little to protect yourself," the only survival instructor Widow has met says, pacing slowly in front of the line of girls, all standing straight at attention, despite the fact that many of them cannot feel their feet. "This is a short, simple exercise, and one that is essential to survival."

She takes a few steps back, toward the frozen lake. "Hand-to-hand combat on ice, and surviving in the instance that you might fall through."  
Widow can't help but notice that the instructor is garbed in heavy winter gear. She got snowshoes and a thick jacket, and they had to hike here for a good 40 minutes through nearly two foot deep snow in nothing but underclothes. Widow wants to punch her. A lot. Preferably many times until the snow is no longer white.

Her skin feels stiff, and she can no longer feel anything below her knees. She can almost feel her eye fluid freezing on her eyeball when she doesn't blink for a few moments.

"I'll pair you up." Frozen girls are then forced out onto the middle of the lake, and the survival instructor watches as the temperature-stiffened joints try to move as they begin to spar.

Widow had been paired with White Eagle, who looks like she's about two steps from frozen. Widow doesn't want to feel pity for her opponent, but she does. Eagle seems more susceptible to the cold than the rest. Of course, Black Widow's extremities feel like they're about to fall off, but she toughs it out, like always.

Her first move on the nearly defenseless Eagle is a simple roundhouse kick. She doesn't even know if she can handle anything else. Despite her stiffened state, her kick is fluid, hard. She's not trying to kill, so she only aims for Eagle's shoulder.

It's a testament to how out of it she is that Eagle's defense is slow and sluggish. She's always been a quick, agile defender, using that to slowly dismantle her opponents, and Widow feels worry replace pity. Eagle is shivering violently, and her eyes are blank and listless. Her finger and toes are most definitely an interesting shade of blue. Her lips are turning purplish.

The kick lands on the thick muscle of her shoulder, and Eagle is knocked off balance, and stumbles to the side. Widow knows how to fight, takes it as what it is—the weak point. The shatter point. The point where she can take control of this fight. She darts forward, the cold only a small hindrance in the back of her mind, and slams an unforgiving elbow into the side of Eagle's neck.

She goes down like a ragdoll, and the creak and groan of shifting ice breaks her focus for the barest of moments. She almost worries it will break, but but her best estimation, there is a least a foot and a half of solid water beneath her feet. It will take a lot more than a girl falling down to break through.

Her breath is making foggy puffs in the air as she extends her focus to the four other pairs spread out on the ice. Her spar is the only one that is complete, her opponent the only one down groaning on the moving ice.

The survival instructor wanders over. "Good, Black Widow. They told me you would do exceedingly well." She turns a disapproving gaze to Eagle, who has curled into a loose fetal position, her body instinctively trying to preserve what heat it has left. "We hoped you would do better, White Eagle. This is very disappointing."

Eagle doesn't respond, looking close to despondency on the ice. If spring wasn't encroaching, if there was the bite of winter in the air rather than the nip of spring, Widow thinks that none of them would've made it to the lake. Eagle certainly wouldn't have.

Widow's throat feels like it's closing.

She wants to go down on the ice with Eagle, try to help her or  _something_  because it's just so damn  _pitiful_  to see her down there.

She stares in inaction as the rest of the fights come quietly to a close around her.

"Losers," the instructors yells out, voice bouncing off the ice, "Over here. Now."

The five who'd had the misfortune of being beaten in the frigid conditions shuffle over to the instructor like a death march, and Widow notices the hole in the thick ice. Her breath catches as she realizes exactly what the instructor is having them do.

"Since," the instructor began with a military-ramrod position, "you cannot handle a simple spar while you are cold, you are being given the task of swimming in frigid water. As you can see here, we've cut a hole into the ice. And, twenty meters that way," she gestures down the ice, where an identical, jagged opening lays, cold waters gently lapping the sides, "there is another opening. Swim under the ice to the other hole, or you will drown." Her tone is informative, matter of fact. As if risking your life for an inane purpose was perfectly logical.

One by one, they jump. Super-cooled water sloshes out of the opening as their bodies enter the lake. Wind whistles through the trees, and Widow and the other barely-winners stand and watch for the first ones to emerge.

At least 31 seconds pass before anyone comes out.

It's Dark Falcon, and she's gasping and choking for air. Her name aptly describes her, with dark hair and eyes and brown skin. Her skin looks paler now, and she's trembling violently. But Widow has never felt more respect for her as she drags herself out of the opening, spits up more water, and finally rolls away from the water, finally settling on her back. Her breathing looks shallow.

No one moves to assist her.

It's 47 seconds before a second head emerges, and Widow sees the blonde hair and knows it's Eagle. She expects ( _she can't bring herself to say 'hopes'_ ) her to get out, just as Falcon had moments before. One quaking hand reaches for the ice's edge, and she... falls. Her hand slips off the edge, her torso splashes back into the water. Then, she sinks. Her hand is still raised, and Widow realizes it's in a half-hearted hope that someone would grab her hand and pull her out...

Widow chokes as the frozen fingers slip beneath the surface.

It feels like she's outside herself as she watches her feet begin to move, to  _run_ , towards the water. She doesn't stop to search around on the surface, and she only has time to think  _What the hell am I doing?_  with the furious shouts of the survival instructor in her ears as she dives into the water.

As she breaks the barrier between the air and the water, her breath rushes from her lungs in an intense stream of bubbles. The water is so, so dark, almost black, and her eyes feel like they're freezing as she peels them open. She looks around frantically, not seeing Eagle anywhere, so she swims deeper, even though everything in her is telling her to  _go back,_  but she won't listen.

Her ribcage feels like it's being constricted when she finally spots a blob of pale yellow hair, waving like sea kelp. ( _How long has she been under?_ ) She kicks her legs, and she feels the cold seeping into her bones and can barely rotate her shoulders enough, kick her legs enough to paddle down to where Eagle is still sinking, hand still outstretched, albeit more relaxed.

Widow reaches for the hands, grasps it, and yanks the deadweight to her side and fits an arm around her torso. When she looks back up, she can't resist the panic that surges through her when she sees how far away the opening is. Being who she is, she doesn't care if her situation seems desperate, she's going to fight like a hellcat until she's no longer breathing.

Her body feels like it's at war as she begins to make her way to the surface, her body feels frozen, her skin like ice, but her lungs burn like a furnace that refuses to heat the rest of her. She feels it in her eyes now, and she can't stop herself from pulling in a deep breath, and the cold water rushes into her lungs. There's suffocation, freezing, burning, everything culminating inside of her and she's convinced she literally  _can't swim anymore._

And then there's glorious air in her lungs, and she tries to gasp it in, but the water coughs from her throat of it's own accord. She doesn't notice that almost everyone has gathered around the opening as she drags herself and Eagle from the icy prison. She's on her hands and knees and her throat  _hurts_  and her body is moving of it's own accord and writhing as it rids itself of the water. And she's  _so cold._

She can't stop trembling, so violently she feels like she's having a seizure.

Her head tilts, and she sees that Eagle's not moving, and her eyes are closed and she looks peaceful and  _dead._  "Oh, hell no," she grinds out. She can't believe she still has the capacity to move as she scrambles to Eagle's side. She leans an ear down by her nose, listens for breathing, and hears only the moan of shifting ice. She feels no pulse under her fingertips, and the pupils framed by sky blue irises don't contract when she looks at them.

"Fuck you, Eagle," she whispers as she begins compressions. "You better fucking breath in the next two seconds or I'll kill you myself."

There's no response to her words, and Widow tries not to think of how the fight could have damaged Eagle, made her unable to swim to her full capabilities. She's so cold it hurts.

"Breath, damn it!" Widow yells at Eagle's white and blue face. She doesn't notice the other girls clustering around her, their hushed whispers, or the instructor furiously breaking into the group.

"Widow," the instructor says adamantly, "she's dead."

Widow doesn't listen. "There's no such thing as cold and dead until she's warm and dead," she says, copying the matter-of-fact tone the instructor had used. No one moves at her distress, so Widow yells, "Start a fucking fire, you useless swine!"

"Nobody move!" yells the instructor as the girls begin to move at the urgency of Widow's command. She turns back to Widow and the downed girl. "Widow, if you do not get off the ground in the next three seconds, I might just leave you here and let you find your own way back to the facility."

"First off, it's ice I'm sitting on," Widow points out, and she can't be sure how she can manage to be sassy when she's so goddamned  _cold_ , but she manages it. "And second, I'd welcome that. I'd be fine. Excellent even if I could build a fire." ( _Maybe not, but now is most certainly not the time to be showing doubts._ )

She can tell the instructor is gritting her teeth, and Widow starts to worry when she can't feel her fingers anymore. She can't put up a fight when the instructor grasps her hair, ignoring her previous threats, and literally drags her off the ice, leaving a frozen Eagle lying on the lake. She's conscious ( _barely_ ) as she's dragged back the way they came. She's so numb she can't quite feel anything, but she looks up, the coniferous trees piercing the sky, almost like pointy fingers stabbing up into the infinite blue she hadn't seen until that moment. The infinite blue that looked so much like the dead eyes she just watched close and never open again.

The image of that blue stays with her until she finally surrenders the battle and closes her own eyes. She absently wonders if she'll ever have the strength to open them again.


	14. Purpose

**Subject Age: 16 years, 10 months**

"She is our most promising candidate," says Andrei Volkov, the doctor whose program was responsible for the girls in front of him. He knows the General has always been impressed with his work, and today he had wanted to directly observe the girls in their sparring practice. It didn't surprise him in the least. The Red Room program is reaching its conclusion, and he wanted to get a feel for the prime operative before they put into motion the Cicada Protocol. "Your friend Sorolov trained her personally in this form of combat."

General Mikhail Rebrenovich watches with a critical eye the redheaded whirlwind. Mischa had always had high praise for the girl's natural talents. She is a rather impressive specimen. Not intimidating, that is, if she hadn't been putting opponent after opponent into the mats. That is what makes her so perfect—no one will suspect her. They never go after the pretty ones, he's learned. "I can see why, Doctor. I've looked at her completed missions. She is a remarkable asset. A true testament to the tradition of the Red Room."

"And she is a master of interrogation tactics, has a high pain tolerance, and has shown no adverse side affects from the mind wipes." These 'mind wipes' ( _brainwashing_ _just sounds so barbaric_ ) are Dr. Volkov's pride and joy. With a certain stream of chemicals, paired with visual and auditory stimulation, he can wipe entire memories from the subject's mind. It is a wonderful culmination of his research, passed down from his father who had been a key member of the Winter Soldier program.

As revolutionary as his work is, his employers had approached him with a fascinating project—they desired a way to remove emotional centers from a subject without altering brain chemistry. A challenge, for certain, one that had called upon all his intellect. Even so, he'd still needed to call in assistance from several colleagues and experts outside of the Red Room program.

Some of them, well,  _one_ , hadn't been able to handle the truth of the project once it was presented to him. Volkov had been quick to report the man's violent reticence, and he hasn't heard anything from Gavril since then.

"Are there any other recruits showing scores as good as hers?" asks General Rebrenovich.

Dr. Volkov looks over his notes, "Red Wolf," he points out the pixie-like girl, delicate both in facial features and in stature, who has taken on the apparently unwanted task of sparring with the Black Widow, "has showed high scores in all areas, and she is the only one who has ever defeated Widow in a spar. Others have come close, but have all lost."

"Are there any risks with either of them? I need a reliable agent, Doctor."

Volkov hesitates minutely, appears to briefly consider making it seem as if his program is flawless, but apparently decides that full disclosure would be more favorable, "With any psychological experiment, there are risks for a psychological break. We've conditioned their minds against such an occurrence, but the human mind is fundamentally unpredictable."

"Have they shown an aptitude for compassion?" His tone is disgusted, haughty as if 'compassion' is something to be despised.

Dr. Volkov sighs. This is the one fall-through with the two prospects. "They both have a number of times. There are full summaries in their files of the occurrences if you wish to see them. It also appears that they've formed something of a friendship."

"That might be a useful point of manipulation," Rebrenovich murmurs quietly. He looks back to Volkov, "I would like to see their full files."

"Of course." The doctor continues, "We've tried to design environments to suppress these tendencies, but we've thus far been, for the majority of the time, unsuccessful."

"The majority?"

"We've had marginal success with wiping certain emotional experiences, but the procedure hasn't been perfected. Emotional memory is a powerful psychological anchor. We're having trouble erasing the emotion from the brain directly. It's not that precise yet, and we've only been able to erase memories. We've found that some of the participants are genetically psychopathic, but none of them are as talented as Black Widow or Red Wolf."

"I trust you're continuing to work on the procedure?"

"Of course, sir. It's been our primary objective."

"When will they be fully mission capable?"

"Very soon. The Cicada protocol is coming quickly. Then, if the Black Widow does as I expect she will, she will be ready within the year."

He pauses as he watches as Widow is knocked onto her back by the Red Wolf, but quickly recovers. She looks determined, and a sheen of sweat covers her face as she leaps at the Wolf; her gymnastic form of combat is an impressive sight as the Widow's opponent crashes to the mat with pained grunt. "Are you sure she'll be able to kill them all?"

"Most certainly, sir."

* * *

Widow helps Wolf off her back with a disarming smile. "You know, if you hadn't backed off when you put me down you might've had me," she says. "Key word being 'might.'" Her opponent looks up, and Widow follows suit, seeing the two men who have been watching the days' sparring from a high balcony above the mats.

"Who are they? I don't think they're instructors." Wolf observes.

Widow wracked her brain, "I'm not sure. I've seen the bald one around, but this army guy's new."

"Jeez, I don't remember him. I wish I had your memory."

"You and everyone else."

"God, you're so smug sometimes."

"When you're born with a photographic memory I think you can afford to be smug about anything you want," Widow jested playfully.

"Smartass."

They stand side by side, staring down the men who are still uncomfortably observing the entire gym. They stare right back. They give off an air like that of tyrants, and Widow isn't sure she should even be reading into the situation. ( _Don't question, don't question, don't question..._ ) She feels a sudden rush of anger, disgust and something else, her fingers tingle as she looks at the bald one. She feels like she knows him from somewhere.  _Why?_  She ignores the gnawing emotion.

Widow and Wolf both know their time slots are done with, and end the uncomfortable stare down with the observers. They both head for the trash cans near the doors. As they begin unwrapping the tape from their hands and wrists ( _the tape is the one concession they're allowed_ ) Widow sees an interesting expression on Wolf's face. She knows it as  _suspicion,_  as  _foreboding._  Emotions she doesn't expect to even exist on Wolf's face.

"What's the matter?"

She remains quiet a moment, seemingly fascinated with the tape on her hands before she says, "Things are changing. I can't explain it, but... the air just feels  _different_  somehow." She continues to unravel the white wrap from her hands.

Widow knows what she means. Things are changing with incredible speed. For someone who's lived her life a certain way for as long as she can remember, the change is obvious. She doesn't flinch as she rips the tape roughly past still-healing blisters and cuts.

Instruction is down to near zero, and all they've done recently is fight the other girls and go on missions. Widow didn't mind, she prefers the action much more than classroom work anyway. The missions are... just missions. Her mind goes to a different place when she kills, and it is almost a... fog that she just loses herself in. The fog of seduce, torture, kill. It is automatic, what she is made to do. She's learned that she's always had these... skills. ( _Your talents cannot be wasted on normalcy, Widow. You have the privilege of being special. To waste such talent would be criminal._ ) Widow comes back to herself. "Changing how? I know they've changed our schedules for more fighting and whatnot, but..."

Wolf bites her lip as she abandons the last pieces of tape and Widow follows suit, rubbing the newly revealed skin gently, awakening the deadened nerve endings, and the pair walks out into the hallway. Wolf is silent, but Widow doesn't repeat her question. She knows she heard it, and she knows Wolf- she won't ignore it. They have an hour of free time before their next session, and neither of them really know what to do. They used to retreat to one of the vacant gyms and practice, trying to perfect each others' technique. Now, they're barred from the gyms, and they can't quite figure out why.

"You know that feeling when you feel as if the end is near?" Wolf suddenly asks. Widow gives her an odd look ( _not the answer she was expecting_ ), but nods anyway. "That's what I'm experiencing at the moment. It's not pleasant."

Widow swallows, not entirely familiar with the concept, but enough knowledge to make an educated guess. Wolf's gut almost never led her astray. "I'm sure we'll be fine."

"Will we? Look at what's going on—we're being observed much more closely during training, we've got no classes, only physical training, more and more difficult missions, and all these military guys keep coming around and watching us. Something is happening, and I don't like not knowing what."

Widow bit her lip in contemplation. All true points, but she'd always been taught to never dissect motives... "If I was the philosophic type, I'd say you were right. But since I'm not, and we shouldn't be questioning our superiors, I'm choosing to ignore it."

Wolf softly smiled at Widow's answer. "I feel like the answer is in my mind somewhere, but I just... can't remember it," she finishes softly, wistfully.

Widow has experienced those moments as well, just random gaps in what would seem like knowledge that she should have. Mostly small pieces of missions, and that's  _so weird_  because she remembers  _everything_ , even when her adrenaline is running a mile a minute, sometimes after she's snuck out, large chunks of time she just doesn't remember ( _if she drank on those outings, she could've blamed the booze, but she didn't drink. Didn't want to put anything into her body that might change her, change her reaction time, make her less able to fight. She didn't let her guard down like that_ ). When she saw the man in the gym, she somehow felt like he is tied to it, but she had no evidence to support the...  _feeling._ Ick. Feelings and emotions are  _unpredictable._ And Widow hates emotional unpredictability. She makes a derisive sound, "I don't like the word 'feeling'." And with that, the absolute strangeness of their conversation flees ( _she's never known Wolf to act so emotional and insubordinate_ ) and levity replaces it.

Wolf only laughs as they finally arrive outside Widow's room. "Hey, let me show you something," Widow says, leading Wolf into her room.

She drops onto her stomach and shimmies under her bed, heading for the corner of her room. "Excellent job," Wolf says sarcastically.

"Shut up and give me two seconds." She pulls up the edge of the carpet, revealing the concrete floor beneath, and a few sheets of paper. She withdraws the small packet of papers that she's hidden. Widow is breaking  _a lot_ of rules to have done this, to have kept it. Wolf's gasp tells her as much.

"Christ, and I thought you were a daredevil for hanging onto that damned pin. How on earth did you hide that? Also, where the hell did you get that much paper and a pencil?"

Widow rolls her eyes. "Just look at it. I designed it." She hands over the designs and says, "I call it the Widow's Bite. Clever, right?" Widow's mind is very well-oriented in designing weapons, she's even designed a few gas-chamber handguns that she likes  _almost_ as much as the Bites. "It's not finished yet, but I'm thinking it's going to be like an electrical blast, energy surge type of thing. Stronger than any random taser or cattle prod, but a fraction of the weight and size. Theoretically, this works great, but I'll probably never know unless I can actually build it."

The design is a thick bracelet, a gauntlet almost, with two small output cells on the gloved portion that run back to the bullet-like power cells around the wrists. There are deconstructions of each part occupying every inch of paper, which is indicative of her absolute lack of it. Wolf has no doubts that her friend has whittled the pencil down until there is literally no lead left in it. "This is impressive," Wolf says. "I hope I can see them for real sometime."

Widow takes the drawings back, running her fingers over the paper. Yeah, she'll probably never build these, but it's fanciful to think. Think that if she can someday get out from under the watchful eyes of her handlers that she could get the parts to build it. "Yeah, I doubt it," she says dismissively, and she tries to quell the rising sadness that her designs will never see the light of day. She crawls back down and replaces it under the flap of carpet.

She pops back up and starts shucking her clothing, heedless of Wolf's presence. "If you don't mind, um, get out. I need to take a nap before next session."

Wolf laughed, "Its so hard to believe that you can sleep so soundly with a ticking time bomb beneath your bed."

Widow crawls beneath the sheets, curling into the colorless wall, leaving her back exposed. She squeezes her eyes shut before saying, "I think I recall asking you to leave." Her tone was tired but in good humor.

She hears Wolf step towards the door. "Sleep tight."

"Never understood that expression..." Her eyelids grow heavy. The strenuous physical training and constant activity is wearing on her body. She is so  _tired._

She hears the door shut, and her eyes fall shut.

* * *

"This friendship is most concerning," says General Rebrenovich. He's surrounded by monitors, in a darkened room. So, so many monitors, in the ventilation systems even, outside the facility, everywhere. It is charming that the girls think that they can just get out of the most heavily secured building in Russia next to the Kremlin without their handlers knowing about it. Many of the supporting psychologists are hesitant to let them have their moments of freedom, but Volkov is the program head directly beneath the General, so they have to differ to him. The effects are most fascinating.

The doctor nods, eyes fixed on the camera monitor from the Black Widow's quarters. "Agreed, but if you think of the potential this gives us for experimentation of her emotional reactions, it could be invaluable."

The General's expression is unreadable, and only a twitch in his lip reveals to the casual observer that he is not a statue. "Please send me your plans for these experiments. I would like to see the results."


	15. Ne Plus Ultra

**Subject Age: 17 years, 11 months**

A large, armed escort is never a good sign. Widow knows, since she can remember having one several times over the years. The Red Room guards somehow all look the same, their faces blended together into one incoherent whole in red Kevlar. Their high-powered rifles are enough of a deterrent that she won't run anywhere. Not that she had a need to, she doesn't know where they are going after all, but the presence of the literal pack of escorts confuses her, sets her on edge.

They never say a single word, communicating rather with pointed looks and jerks of the head and hands. They lead her through the maze of hallways on a path Widow has never been before.

They go up and up and up and Widow doesn't know how they could even  _fit_  so many stairs into this building when they finally come out into a completely different world. It is the picture of excess—lush, expensive carpet beneath her feet, heavy velvet curtains framing the massive widows, a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, an ornate wooden desk that looked to be worth more than the entire room combined. It looks eerily akin to many of the homes belonging to the marks she'd taken out over the years. The air is full of smoke, and she can easily identify it as the result of an expensive Cuban rolled cigar. The smell never gets off you, she remembers. One of her marks had them stashed all over his house.

Behind the desk is the same man in the Soviet army uniform she'd seen yesterday. Judging by the accolades pinned on the lapels and shoulders, he is a four-star general. Widow immediately straightens taller. ( _Always show respect for our military. You will work for them one day._ ) There's the Cuban, hanging out of his mouth like a dead tongue. She can't stand cigars. She remembers a few times wherein the Chief thought it necessary to give her painfully placed burns with one of his cigars. His were different than these ones though. These ones smelled sweeter and weren't followed by the scent of singed skin and flesh. A knot of something that feels vaguely like anticipation and nervousness curls in her throat. "Thank you, guards. Leave us." He has a deep voice, gravelly like a smoker's and strong like a man who has nothing to fear.

Black Widow doesn't move a muscle as the guards leave the room and she just stares down the general. Her feet are shoulder width apart, hands clasped behind her back, her pose militaristic and at-attention. Just because he  _has_ to have her respect doesn't mean that she has to be intimidated by him. He is a large but narrow man beneath the military regalia, with salt-and-pepper hair and dark brown eyes. He contemplates her for a few moments before he finally says, "You, my dear Black Widow, have caused quite a stir among your superiors."

She doesn't know how to respond to that. "Just doing my job, sir." Can't go wrong with politeness, right?

"You are far too modest." Widow wants to snort in laughter ( _The Black Widow? Modesty?_ ), but holds a straight face. "Your exploits have been a great service to your country."

"My pleasure, sir." Not really, because its just what she does. She can't do anything else. She doesn't know exactly what the point of this meeting was, so she may as well stick with the polite route. Always assess the situation before committing to anything. A sudden thought crosses through her mind- maybe this is the end of her training. Wolf had said she'd felt as much... Widow swallows, keeping her expression neutral.

"You are the epitome of what we'd hoped when we began the program," the General says in an indulgently praising tone, "however, there are others who are as good as yourself."  _Wolf._  "Many of your peers have shown aptitudes in all the same areas that you have, and we do not tolerate mediocrity. There can only be one who is the  _best_."

She doesn't say anything at first, his words pulling and bending, and she feels her insides drop as she starts to realize what he's implying. "What are you asking me to do?" She internally winces at her demanding tone, hopes to make up for it and adds, "Sir."

One. Only one could be the best.

He is facing one of the large windows. "You are a smart girl, Widow. I believe you already know what I'm asking you to do."

She doesn't want to voice it aloud, feigns compliance, "I am not trained to read into situations and look for a deeper meaning. That's not what I'm here for... Sir."

She hears him sigh.  _Didn't expect that one, eh, tough guy?_  "So perhaps I shall lay it out in explicit terms?"

"That would be helpful, sir." She grits her teeth and hopes she doesn't sound insubordinate. She's been disciplined multiple times for that very infraction.

She feels smug until he turns, and she realizes that he's seen through her thinly-veiled attempt at dodging the realization. "You will have to kill them, Widow. It is a great honor to be chosen. You've earned this." He says it like it's congratulatory.

The floor is falling out from under her and the ceiling is collapsing and she feels like she  _can't breath_  and she's choking on the putrid air because they can't ask her to  _kill them_ , and she can't  _kill Wolf._  She will kill anyone else,  _everyone else_  if she needed to... There's not a thing that Widow doesn't believe that she can't do. But killing the one person she considers a friend is something she can't do. She wants to choke, to wretch, to scream, to run from the facility and never come back because she simply  _can't do this._

None of her turmoil plays out on her face.

She must follow orders. Follow the goddamned orders. ( _Failure is synonymous with torture. Failure is not an option. Never an option. Insubordination is not an option._ ) Do not question. They know best. She has a talent that cannot be wasted. If she has to kill them, kill  _Wolf,_  there has to be a reason.  _But I'm not supposed to look for reasons!_  She wants to punch something in frustration. She has to follow orders. Don't question, just do it. Orders. She has to follow, has to earn her place...

"I can see you are battling inner demons at the moment, child," he says, and she now wants to punch  _him_ because no one's called her a child in  _years_  and she doesn't want to go back before she was Black Widow and when she was... no. She won't think of that now. He seems to think of a way that this would be explicable to her, says, "There is a great honor that comes from destroying one's enemies. Without enemies, there would be no battle, and without battle, there would be no victory. For every life you take in the name of your country...that is one more victory. One more message to those who seek to ruin us. One more triumph for  _peace_. It must be experienced to be understood. And I have this experience. You do not have such pleasure yet, which is why you are obviously struggling with these orders."

Widow stares with wide eyes. Enemies. They're enemies and threats. Justice and peace. That's what she's killing for. She'd just have to recite that as a mantra  _justice and peace justice and peace justice and peace_  as she kills. Her throat feels tight again. She doesn't understand why they all have to die. Are they enemies? She tries to clear her mind, pressing her eyes shut in concentration.  _Don't question it. They want the best. That's me._

With bile pressing against the back of her mouth, she opens her eyes, manages a strained, "Yes, sir. I understand my orders."

A feral grin crosses the General's face and Widow feels as if her entire existence has collapsed in on itself.

* * *

The room has clearly been crafted specifically for this day.

It's large, about half the size of an American football field. The vaulted ceilings are high, at least four stories, and bright white lights droop off the ceiling like decadent pearls. Plexiglass windows ring the walls on the floor level, and if she looks up, she can see more of the windows circling the room on the highest level. The birds-eye view of the kill box, she realizes distastefully. The floor and walls are white, so white that the light almost reflects off of them like a mirror, and she feels like she's sticking out in the black suit she wears, like an ant under a fucking microscope and she hates the scrutiny, hates what she's here for.

What she's here for.

She hears a door open, feet shuffling, and the door close. She turns, and she feels so disgusting because she's so damn relieved that it isn't Wolf. Create distance. Just a face. Just a mark.

She focuses on the kill strike. Not the look of exhaustion and relief as she pulls herself from the frozen lake, just the blank face of the target she must eliminate.

It's Dark Falcon and she doesn't look ready for a fight, she just looks lost. She spots Widow, comes over with a tentative ease. Familiarity to fight off the unknown. Widow wants to feel sick again.

"A quick snap of the neck will do for this one. If she fights back, you may choose how to end her." His voice is in her ear, on the little communicator that she'd used on an intricate mission once. They usually give her the mission file, the parameters, and turn her loose. She likes the freedom, the illusion of it, anyway. She growls, want to rip the thing out and throw it against a wall. But she can't.

"Widow, what's going on-" her question remains unfinished as her last words are interrupted by Widow's quick hands, wrapping around her neck, a quick jerk to one side.

She feels the rip and tear of her spinal cord beneath her fingers. Hears the crack and snap. Smells Falcon's shock and fear like sulfur. Then her eyes are blank, dark eyes gone even darker if that was possible.

Its over in less than five seconds, the point where Falcon spoke to where's she is now, dead but still warm on the ground.

The orders. That's all this is.

She descends into the razor's edge fog as the body is dragged away by guards. She can feel the observers eyes stabbing into her like accusing, praising knives ( _To waste such talent would be criminal._ )

Her breathing is short as they send the next one in, and she goes down easier than Falcon. She doesn't speak a single word before Widow is on her and her spine is broken.

It's almost easy now. The routine. ( _Taking a life is like target practice._ ) They send them in, she snaps their necks. The general doesn't speak in her ear anymore. It's just her there, her and the target, her and dead screaming silence after a neck is broken. The faces she knows blending together into a collage of death and dying and pain and fear and nausea.

In her fog, she notices her opponents are gradually becoming more skilled. Like a sick tournament. Take out the weak ones first, and then let the best of them at each other. Nausea and thought fade in the wake of her natural gift. Natural curse.

Her mind sees everything, remembers everything. Every girl is different. Black Jaguar's hands spasmed a bit as she over neural inputs manifesting themselves in death, and Widow knows she's dead before she hits the ground.

White Tiger struggles against her more than the others, busting her lips with a well-placed kick, and she feels warmth dribble down her chin. She wipes it away, but the brief victory of injuring the Widow doesn't last long as a booted foot jabs into her sternum, she hears the blow, can image in visage of a set of crushed lungs and a compacted heart.

Lioness, for all her advantages, puts up a sluggish fight and for the first time in what seems like days the general speaks, "She is weak. Pathetic, really, that when she must fight for her life she cannot even muster the strength to defend herself."

Pathetic, is that what she is? Widow knows exactly what the bloodshot eyes and dark crescents hanging beneath her eyes mean. She had heard that Lioness had been outside almost the entire night.

Widow doesn't snap her neck, and she meant to, because those were the orders, but Lioness recoils hard from Widow's powerful roundhouse kick, and she flies into the wall. Skull meeting concrete is a sound Widow never wants to hear again.

She's down and doesn't get up. God, the sound of the body hitting the floor. Like a fucking sack of potatoes, except it's the body of someone she knows and she feels bile at the back of her throat because she sees the blood pooling, standing against the clinical white.

The color of being scrubbed clean, white. White tainted by the blood of the girl she just killed, and can almost see it staining her hands. She doesn't want to see red anymore.

But there's more and more red. Each one that hits the floor, red, red,  _red._  So much red.

She's drowning in the red, almost doesn't notice that they have not sent in another target. "Am I finished?" She sounds so clinical, her voice as steady as it was when she needed to play confidant seductress.

"No." He is pleased with her apparent lack of emotion. If only he knew... "We have one final test for you."

Doors open, and Widow feels like she's about to collapse, bury herself under the red and just die there because  _she can't kill her._

Red Wolf.

"Your final test of loyalty commences. Proceed however you see fit." She finally breaks her orders and rips the General out of her ear, crushing the insignificant communicator in her palm as if it were foam.

Test of loyalty. Who was she loyal to? Her country, or her friend? ( _We must never disappoint our country._ )

Wolf, "I know what they're asking us to do." They're separated by at least a dozen feet, but it feels like barely a hairsbreadth. "They asked me to kill you. I'm sure they asked you to do the same."

Widow doesn't say anything. Just watches, jade eyes staring down Wolf like a laser. They're both frozen in the ice of letting the other make the first move.

As always, Wolf is the one who breaks the ice. She moves forward, obviously in attack position, and Widow doesn't want to hurt her but  _she's giving her no choice_  so she brings her knee up beneath Wolf's chin and Wolf doesn't respond at all like Widow thought she would and falls to the ground. She doesn't stay down, though, and rolls and renews her attack, and roundhouse kick that's so slow it's less than effortless to block it and she doesn't know why Wolf is being such a terrible fighter.

"What the hell are you doing?" Widow shouts, incensed. Wolf is only hastening the most unfavorable outcome if she keeps doing this.

Instead of charging wildly again, Wolf stops. Smiles sadly at her friend, "Only one of us is going to come out of this. I know you, and you won't kill me unless provoked."

Widow doesn't have time to fully absorb the words before Red Wolf begins anew with a barrage of right and left hooks.

The physical is simple. Block. Absorb. Counter. Step back. Can't go in for the kill. Not yet.

She hesitates, Wolf is stumbling, but she doesn't kill. Can't. Her body moves automatically, ready to drive the heel of her palm into Wolf's sternum to collapse her ribcage, but she stops, almost stumbling herself to stop her own momentum. She wants to scream, to yell at Wolf, but her throat feels as if it is clogged by air.

Wolf recovers after an inordinately long time. Widow sees anger in Wolf's eyes. Angry the Widow hasn't gone for the kill as she always did when she got an advantage. "Fight me!" Widow still looks akin to a gasping trout, so Wolf continues, "One of us is leaving this room! One! It's going to be you and  _everyone knows it!_ " The last words are screamed, and Wolf raises her arms to the heavens, indicating the silent observers who are now shuffling uncomfortably from their window perches at being pointed out. "You're going to kill me and you're going to survive." Her eyes are like iron as she says, "I'll be damned if I don't do this one good thing." Now, quieter, as if she had not intended for Widow to hear, "Let me do this  _one good thing._ "

Widow listens, absorbs, completely still.

Wolf comes at her again, much more precise than she was before. Familiar territory that Widow can almost lose herself in if she doesn't think about the reality she faces. Can almost lose herself in the illusion that she doesn't have to kill her.

But the fantasy doesn't last long. Real blows, real pain. They step effortlessly back into their eerie dance, combinations of poise and grace mixed with violence; like partners who have practiced the dance over and over, they know each other, know their strategy, know each other more intimately than lovers in the art of the fight.

What she thinks back on, many years after, is how it was an accident. A goddamned accident.

They're in the throes of an intense spar, Widow skipping over obvious openings to shift the fight's outcome in her favor. The Widow gives no openings, gives no opportunity to find out if this devotion goes both ways. She doesn't know why. The end is unavoidable. Some part of her must think that there might be a favorable outcome for the both of them. She should know not to think such things anymore.

She doesn't realize how much force she's put behind her punch until she hears the crunch of broken ribs and the strangled breath of a punctured lung is pulled from Wolf's body. She falls, and it's no act this time.

There's no silence afterwards. Only broken, ragged breathing, and Widow's panicked gasp.

And now Widow feels like she's swallowed her tongue because she just messed up. Badly. Horribly. Incorrigibly. The existence that collapsed on her is suffocating her. She can't breath. Within two seconds she's on the floor next to Wolf, hands fluttering uselessly over her. She knows there's nothing she can do now, she just can't admit it. Not strong enough to admit it.

Wolf's eyes are wide, ( _she obviously hadn't expected the blow to be so damaging_ ) but there's acceptance in them. She knows where she is headed. Knows her fate. There's no hand reaching out of the water, clinging to life in a desperate grasp for something  _human,_  something that _feels_ , something that's not afraid to do so. No, in Wolf's eyes there is no despair. Acceptance, maybe a hint of fear and anxiety intermingled, but there is knowing in her eyes and Widow wants to lay down and die next to her. Wolf is coughing blood now, and Widow watches as it drips to the floor, almost black against the white.

"Wolf, you're not going to die." It sounds like a command. As if she has some semblance of control right now.

Wolf's laugh is but a cough, and there more red. More and more red. "You are... an excellent liar... But even I know... to not question... the inevitable."

"Stop talking."

"Make me."

Their old banter. It feels like a knife is twisting in her gut over something that used to bring such joy.

Another pained cough. More blood.

There's red on her hands now, Wolf's blood staining her skin like indelible ink. "End it," the dying girl rasps, a plea to the one person she trusts in this world.

"What?" The words scare her. She's already got Wolf's life on her shoulders, and she doesn't want to be the one to  _truly_  end it. It will be the blood loss, not her fucking mistake that ends Wolf's life. Not Widow.

"Snap my neck... it's that or... bleed out... painfully... for hours."

She has her on rock solid logic. Logic she couldn't deny or refute. Painful, twisted, sickeningly truthful mercy.  _Justice and peace justice and peace justice and peace._

She places hands hands on Wolf's neck, feels for the gap between the vertebrae, the bile rises when she realizes she's treating her best friend like a mark, like a target, like an object, stops when she hears the next words out of Wolf's mouth, "Alisa... Katayev."

"What?" A true wordsmith she is not with her friend dying slowly in front of her. The confusion is born of misunderstanding.

"My name... I never... forgot..." The rest of her words, if there are any, are swallowed by an eruption of coughing and blood.

It seems like so much blood, but in reality she knows its not, knows it will take hours- agonizing, horrendous, slowly bleeding from the inside out. She could be saved. Wolf could be saved if anyone in the Red Room gave two fucks what came of her. But Widow knows they don't, knows that they will let her bleed out slowly,  _slowly_  because they only want her. They all want the Black Widow. Suddenly, taking a life isn't like target practice at all. The name she earned feels like red on her skin,  _under_ her skin, a filth that permeated so deeply no amount of scrubbing, no amount of redemption would ever cleanse her.

She realizes in that moment that Wol—no,  _Alisa_  was the only one who had ever wanted...  _Natalya._  Sharp pain in her head as she remembers the name, feels like a needle is going from her frontal lobe to her cerebellum, but she doesn't react, needs to stay with Wolf now. Names are too much. Her head hurts, and names are just making it worse.

Her eyes flutter, and Widow knows she's probably passing out from the pain. At least it will be easier this way. She'll already look dead when Widow ends Wolf for good. Just as the light is fading from her vision, the Red Wolf manages to spit out her last words with copious amounts of blood, "I love you." Said on the cusp of a dying, rasping breath.

"Love is for children," whispers the Widow. She caused it. All of it. She's the reason Wolf is here on the floor, dying in horrible shivers and painful gasps of breath and blood. The closer she gets, the farther away Wolf seems.

If this is what love comes to, in death and blood, Widow wants no part of it. Not a single shred. There's no real way that this stupid emotion could be at all useful to her. If anything, it is a distraction. Why are there tears in her eyes? Why can she barely breath? Why is the knife spearing upwards into her chest now? No. She is the Black Widow. She does not cry. She does not show emotion. Love  _is_ for children because it is stupid and naive and horrible and gut-wrenching.

Only leads to pain.

And the Black Widow cannot know pain.

The moment passes like any other. Like the hundreds who had already died at the Widow's deadly grasp, it is similar on the outside looking in. Snap, and dead. Stillness like no other.

But inside the moment, it is the worst feeling in the world, though she ignores it. Her tears are dry. Gone someplace where they are useful. Not here.

Her hands stretching around Wolf's neck ( _when did she become so thin?_ ), powerful fingers grasping, finding the best grip.  _Justice and peace._

_We have no use of a child who cannot follow orders._

One jerk, feels the cord rip, feels the resistance, doesn't take no for an answer, applies more pressure. The final snap. Higher pitched than the rest. Pouring salt into the wounds, Wolf's eyes jerk open the moment before she leaves the world.

_She shoots Blue Eyes a look that clearly states 'When I get the chance, I'm coming for you.' Blue Eyes seems to understand, but looks undeterred. She doesn't like that._

They're wide, dead, a splash of blue against the white and the red. But they don't look the same anymore. No one can truly understand what it feels like to watch the spark of life disappear from eyes until experience beats the naivety out of you. It drains like water from a porcelain tub, curving downwards into the theoretical abyss no one really knows exists.

The Wolf had cut her hair not long ago, back to it's normal shortness. The one strand falls across her forehead, falls next to her nose. Normally, Wolf would smile that smile of hers, flick it back into place. She's so still now. The Widow's hand shakes as she reaches for the strand, shakily brushing it back into place. She doesn't remove her hand right away. She rests it on Wolf's cheek, thumb stroking.

She could be sleeping. Like Snow White. If only she could simply lean down, press her lips to Wolf's. Wake her up. See her eyes.

But she doesn't. She removes her hand. Stands.

The moment has passed, and the Black Widow rises from her fog, feels the red on her soul like never before. ( _Can I even have a soul?_ ) The white is no longer just white.

* * *

She awakens, and pure shock jolts unbidden through her as she realizes she  _has no idea where she is._  The blankets are stifling and she kicks out of them with a rushed breath, rolling ungracefully out of the bed. She skitters to the wall, in a defensive position as she places her palms against the tacky wallpaper. ( _S_ _he's never woken up to a room that she doesn't know._ )

It has the look of a motel room, with red and yellow striped wall paper, and a cheap-looking yellow bedspread. The carpet is faded red, and the other furniture, namely a beaten table with a sad, red lamp. The entire room just looks unfortunate, and she has no desire to go anywhere near that bed ever again.

The only thing that looks clean is a pristine manila folder sitting beneath the moth-eaten lampshade.

One that Widow recognizes as a mission folder.

Out of pure habit, she picks it up, opens it. She sees a mission summary, a simple assassination begins to read and then—a pained gasp tears from her throat, the file falls from her hands, and she follows it to the ground as her knees buckle.

She killed Wolf.

Tossed her aside like a piece of trash.

And it's making her sick.

Blue eyes, mesmerizing, beautiful. Blue eyes, dead, dark. Is she destined to destroy everything she touches? The poison tendrils worm through her, and a gasping pain grinds in her stomach, and she doesn't stop the vomit as it spills onto the carpet.

_What have I done?_

She wants to tear her skin from her flesh, claw her eyes from their sockets because  _nothing_ compares to the disgust she feels inside her own skin. ( _Can I even have a soul?_ )

Her head hurts, spins uncontrollably, throbs as if it will break off and fall to the floor. She feels as if her windpipe is closing, drags air in greedily and panicked, her knuckles clenched on the floor. It feels like there is a tempest in her mind, a storm of chaos and hurt and love and  _not love_  and violence.

Control yourself, Widow.

Control. She tries to lock down her emotions, like chaining a massive dragon unfurling its wings in her brain, can almost feel it splitting the two hemispheres of her brain apart.

She can only imagine that this is what insanity must feel like.

An absolute lack on control. Caused by love. She wants to throw the emotion aside like she threw aside so many bodies.

She is the Black Widow. Murderer. Torturer. Weapon of the Republic.

She wants more than anything in that moment to leave, to  _run_. Shed her name like snake skin and be new. Only, she can't be new.

She still killed Wolf.

The fact twists inside of her, knifing through her organs with searing finality.

The name didn't make her what she is. She did that all on her own.

She  _earned_  it. She fought tooth and nail to earn it.

This is what she wanted all along, isn't it? To be the best? To fight for her country, to be unique, to prove to them just how special, just how talented she always was?

She hadn't realized until just now, but she  _is_  the Black Widow. It was never a name, it was a  _revelation_.

 _Can I even have a soul?_  No. No she can't.

And so, the Black Widow picks up the mission file and begins to read.


	16. São Paulo: Part 1 of 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Warning for non-con in this chapter.

**Subject Age: 18 years, 4 months**

_São_   _Paulo, Brazil_

_Private Residence of Gregor Valdre_

_65th floor, Valdre's private suite_

_0037 hours_

"You look beautiful in the moonlight, my love," says Gregor Valdre, CEO of Valdre Incorporated. He watches intently the gentle sway of the redhead's backside as she walks towards the widow of the apartment bedroom. The moon reflects off her porcelain skin, making her glow like the angel he could swear she is.

Her jade eyes are playful as a smile graces her young face as she turns, tucking a lock of her long hair behind her ear and saying brazenly and bashfully all at once and Gregor falls in love with her a little bit more, "I bet you say that to all the girls." God, you wouldn't be able to tell that Portuguese is not her first language the way she speaks it, each syllable rolling effortlessly off her tongue.

"Just one," he assures easily, just as easily as he hid his wedding ring in the nightstand table drawer. To be fair, he and Jacqueline have been growing apart for some time. They rarely sleep in the same bed anymore, let alone with each other. He is hurting no one by being engaged in his current love affair with the beautiful Maria Jacob. Only in the city for a few weeks on holiday from school in the United States, Maria had met him in a bar when she had bought him a drink, and he met the most fiery, outgoing personality he had ever come across. Things had blossomed from there, Maria being the main instigator, and they had tumbled into bed that very night.

Things haven't cooled down since, despite their very wide age gap. (Maria had informed him her 22 years versus his 49 did not bother her. And as far as he is concerned, if she isn't bothered, then he isn't bothered.)

"Come back to bed, Maria. I am not finished with you yet." She stands by the window sill, letting the warm breeze blow across her skin. She looks as if she is made of porcelain from the very hands of the angels. She turns with a look of pure, clean, unadulterated innocence on her face.

Soon, though, she is anything but innocent as she takes on the image of a vixen, and a carnal grin creeps across her face. She tosses her red hair, and like a creeping tigress, prowls back to the bed where he awaits her. "Why, Gregor? Haven't I ravished you enough?"

"Hardly," he answers eagerly. He doesn't think he can ever get enough of that tight, sensuous body. It is perfect, except for these masses of scar tissue she refuses to speak of. He leaves it at that, assuming there was an abusive family member. She pretends they are not there, and so does he.

Any thoughts are well and truly erased by her seductive, husky murmur, "Well then, we'll have to rectify this problem, won't we?" She crawls atop him, and unbeknownst to her subject, begins her most effective interrogation method once more.

She hasn't asked for what she needs yet. The final code for the vault access. Every other password has been garnered from the computer system, but the  _final code_  is only in his brain. And she will get it like water from a sponge. She has him now, hook, line, and sinker. Her barbs are planted, now all she has to do is give a little tug and he will give her the numbers. She has been waiting for the moment when her slow and careful seduction would grant her access to even his most closely guarded secrets. It is an art form, one she had learned through innocence and has perfected through experience.

They're in the throes of pleasure ( _at least one of them is, anyway_ ) and the girl named Maria leans down, teeth next to his ear, and says, "Tell me the access code to the vault, love." The moment she has built up to so carefully. There will be some confusion, but he will relent. This she knows.

Confusion clouds his arousal momentarily. "What? Why?" Why would Maria want the numbers to the vault? Sure, he'd given her a tour, told her about running the company just—His thought processes are useless under the wicked movements of her hips. She moves in a circular pattern, and her hands run through his graying hair.

This Maria, the one playful and loving, says, "You know how much I want to know about running a company. Also, it's a surprise, and if you don't tell me ... " she halts her movements on top of him, and she hears a whine in his throat. When you deny them what they want most, reason and logic become an afterthought.

She begins to lift off of him, and he swallows audibly. "Don't be that way, love."

"Then just tell me the numbers. Just a couple little numbers and then  _I'll let you come inside me_ ," she says those last words as a bribe, knowing that men love it when she lets them release inside of her. She doesn't know why, and doesn't think she ever will, but it works as she sees his face transform from confusion to pure, unadulterated lust. And with a small swivel of her hips, she sinks back down, and just a  _little bit_  of pressure... the digits come out in a rush, there are eleven of them, but she catches each one and remembers them effortlessly. She doesn't have to try very hard.

"Now make me come, Maria," he commands with an agonized look. The only thing on his mind is how tight and torturous she is, and if could just find his release inside of her...

And he has no idea that she has no intention of doing so. Now it's his turn to watch her face transform, from smiles and lust and moaning to a blank look as dark and terrifying as anything he'd ever seen. In these moments, Gregor wonders what kind of creature he has taken to his bed. Given his most intimate secrets to. What kind of creature he is at the mercy of. "Thank you for your cooperation," she spits in Russian, and sees a look of confusion and maybe a hint of uncertain fear before she draws a knife from beneath the mattress and drags it deeply across the skin of Gregor's throat.

The blood and trachea spill from his neck like it has exploded from the inside out as the Black Widow extricates herself from his corpse, and gathers her clothing. She finishes sliding into Maria's shorts and tank top when she hears a quiet knock on the door. She curses under her breath in Russian as she begins procuring all the weapons she had placed around the room. Two handheld guns with silencers. Three knives, including the one still red with Valdre's blood. Two sharp hairpins, and since she does not have time to put them in her hair, shoves them into her bra. She hadn't brought anything else. Her rhinestone flip flops are not exactly functional, so she leaves them behind. A fast getaway is crucial. Especially if there is someone on the other side of the door. It does not matter who. They cannot remember her as the woman who left Gregor's room before his body was discovered. ( _You can never leave a single witness._ )

She is headed for the door, running a hand through her mussed hair, and casts a noncommittal glance at the dead body on the bed. What would be an uncomfortable, downright horrific look for someone grounded in normalcy, at a nude man with his throat slit, does not illicit a reaction from the Black Widow. She feels nothing, only remembers the numbers. She knows where the vault is, knows what files she must steal, knows exactly how to get out, exactly when the shifts of guards change so that she can slide through and out like a ghost. Her hand is on the doorknob.

She nearly leaps out of her own skin out of surprise when she hears the guards this time yelling through the door in Portuguese, "Mr. Valdre? Is everything okay in there?" The timid knock before she had recognized as the weak, tentative knock from the maid. And now, there's the guards, pounding on the door and shouting for Mr. Valdre. His personal security is supposed to be off for the night! (As they always were when Valdre's various mistresses came over.) She decides then and there that she is going to murder whoever in Intel gave her the shitty information.

She very well can't answer them as they continue to pound. Looks like this will have to be a fight-her-way-out situation. That complicates things. She has already planted a computer virus to completely corrupt and destroy the video footage, so that is not a problem. All she has left now is to dispose of the live witnesses without taking too much time. Padding quietly across the carpet, she looks through the peephole.

As far as she can tell, there are five security personnel. Only one has a gun, and the rest have tasers. Laughably easy, but she will have to dispatch them quickly if she wants to remain on schedule. ( _31 minutes until shift change_ ) She realizes distantly that Intel gave her shift change times at well. She'd never had a chance to observe them directly. The guards generally gave Valdre a wide berth, and Maria was always hanging off his arm, so she almost never saw the guards. She could only guess wildly at their scheduling. She recognizes all the classical signs of a mission being shot to hell, but she has gotten out of worse scrapes before.

She flies out the door, effectively knocking two of the more exuberant guards on their asses with the force of her crashing through the door. She snaps one neck ( _the one with the gun, he was the biggest threat_ ) before they can even react to her presence and he falls to the floor. She doesn't take the gun. Too much noise and no time for the silencer.

Her mind assesses the situation, plans her attack before the guards can move two feet. The two standing come at her together ( _amateurs_ ) and she smashes their heads together, knows they'll be unconscious ( _but that's not enough_ ) for at least a little while. She can sense the two behind her whom she knocked down. They don't know those pathetic little tasers won't affect her. Not a high enough voltage. Something with her physiology and hell if she knows. It's probably related to the ability that allows her to know exactly where they are, how far behind her they are, can  _hear their breathing_ when she easily executes a single back handspring, landing one of their heads squarely between her thighs. She breaks his neck without even trying. She was trained to kill with those thighs, after all. Barely a fraction of a second has passed, and she swings her momentum to her left, using the still-standing dead guard as a fulcrum where the other guard is gaping like a fish without water at her display. She slings her elbows around his neck, like she's going to give him a massive bear hug, and releases the now-limp man from the deadly grip of her thighs. Without letting go of the other guard's neck, she takes two running steps along the ground in front of him, launches into the air and flies around his back with the tact and precision of an aerial gymnast. With the force of a sledgehammer, she plants a knee into the middle of his spine, right between his shoulder blades. There's a single loud crack ( _severed spinal cord_ ) followed by multiple, smaller cracks ( _collapsing rib cage_ ) and the man's final gasp as air is forced from his lungs for the last time.

He drops forward and she follows, knowing her weight falling on a collapsed thoracic cavity will seal the deal. He hits the floor, she feels the unnatural give in his back and chest and knows that his heart and lungs have been mutilated beyond repair. She doesn't even pause for a moment to check to see if they are dead. She's good enough that she just knows. She stands, plunges a knife into the base of the skulls of the previously unconscious security guards. Their deaths are positively noiseless. Not even a subconscious movement.

She takes a taser ( _might come in handy if she runs out of bullets_ ) and the gun and searches for a radio, a communicator, some device that links security personnel. She finds it, a little earpiece that she takes and places in her own ear. There's just the regular chatter, talk about the perimeter being secured for the night, and how Valasquez should come to Debrief Room 2 for a summary on Valdre's overnight security, and where are Abilhão, Torres, Lourenço, Forneas, and Salinas? They haven't checked in from the possible threat on level 65.

There's the ticket. She's got to move. ( _28 minutes until shift change_ )

She takes off for the service elevator, capping the silencers on her own guns as she goes. No cameras, little traffic, goes directly to the basement floor. And the security personnel never take it. They prefer Valdre's personal elevator, which is the closest to his personal rooms.

She hits the button, not worrying about fingerprints. Everyone knows that there is a Black Widow. She doesn't care if they have her fingerprints, her DNA. She knows that no one will ever catch her.

The elevator pings, and she steps inside, hitting the button for the basement floor. The service elevator is quick, and then she's flying through the halls like a phantom. She manages to still listen to the radio—they've found Valdre. Who was on his personal detail? No one, he requested to be left alone! And you listened? Stupid! Lock down this building now!

Cute, but their pathetic lockdown will never hold her.

Doors with the highest security rating are no match for her, as she effortlessly fakes her way through pass code locks, fingerprint checks, and ocular scanners ( _those ones are always dicey_ ). She needs no special equipment to do so—her computer virus was a brilliant invention that infected the entire central computer system as well as crippling the security cams, making it so her fingerprints and retinal pattern would open literally any door in the place. Even in lockdown. She feels ashamed, but not much, at the flash of pride that goes through her. She wrote that virus herself.

She comes across some security guards, but with her silenced guns in each hand she puts them down without much effort. She only knows how many she has killed because she knows how many bullets she has put in them. She has replaced her clips of twelve bullets once on each gun.

The inner sanctum of the vault is why she needed to seduce Valdre. She has arrived.

It is a massive door, and it looks like its made of only stainless steel, but she's done her homework. It's a shell of steel, and within is packed with osmium, one of the densest metals found on the planet. The thing is massive, and has a weight to match. Hell, a square foot of the stuff weighs three fourths of a ton. A massive padlock adorns the face. There are seven guards around it, she picks off four before they even register her presence. She takes down two more as they run at her, and she can almost laugh again because none of them have gone for a gun.

The last guard isn't as stupid, and takes cover behind the security desk, gun in hand. She is more worried about the sound than anything. She is surprised when the guard scratches together enough courage to poke his head above his desk. She doesn't waste an opportunity and then the top of his skull litters the ground.

( _15 minutes until shift change_ )

She spins the numbers. No mistakes. She hears the air release, and steps back. The computer will open the door. She may be strong, but she hasn't got a prayer of pulling open this thing. It groans open, and she darts inside.

The vault is a treasure trove of wealth. It's Valdre's personal vault, so there's a lot of valuable shit it in there. Piles of corporate stocks, stacks of cash bound by paper bindings in sets of five grand on wire shelving; there are even piles of  _gold bars_  behind glass doors. But none of those things are of any use to her.

All she knows is that she has to steal very specific documentation. Expenditures, proprietary ownership exchanges, and all that. The official corporate documents are in here. The ones available to the public are apparently doctored. Not that she is supposed to be looking for reasons why she is on a mission. She isn't. Of course not.

The files are in a nondescript file cabinet. Metal, gray, dull. She needs the files from 1993 to present. She takes the files she needs,  _they_  need, an armful of information ( _A handful of facts can be more dangerous than an army of tanks_ ) and blasts out of there because there is only 5 minutes left until the shift change. She had stowed a backpack away in a nearby hallways because she has no intention of carrying this massive stack of papers out in her arms. She quickly and easily finds it and stuffs the folders inside.

Black Widow makes her way back through the complex maze of hallways that make up the underbelly of the high rise in downtown São Paulo. She heads for the tunnels that will eventually lead her to a manhole cover a few blocks away from the building. She just needs to slip through security to get to the entry.

Some of the older buildings in São Paulo have old fashioned storm runoff channels in the basements that lead directly to the city's sewers. These vertical channels were built to drain a building quickly if storm surge flooded the lower levels. This building has one, the opening ten feet by seven feet, with a rusting ladder and the echoes of rat squeals coming from below. She sees a security guard. He yells, she swears and runs for the tunnel.

She drops to the ladder, bits of red oxidized iron flaking off onto her hands. She rapdily steps down the two story drop, and on the fifth rung, felt a give and before she could yank her weight back up, the unstable rung gave way. Should have gone slower.

Not a crisis, not until the rung her hands hold snaps like a toothpick as well. She knows how to break her fall, but she lands on a horribly uneven surface, slanted towards the center to funnel waste water, and her foot twists beneath her. A surprised grunted slips through her teeth. She doesn't so much feel pain. Only that something is off.

It's not broken, clearly. No matter how good she is, she can't ignore a broken bone. But it feels twisted, as if two ligaments are crossed over each other when they shouldn't be. When she rotates it slowly, she can feel tiny bits of pain from her nerves, but its incredibly easy to ignore. She is chastising herself severely as she stands and begins her getaway, albeit slower than she would have liked. And she hears the security guard in pursuit. Her body is limping automatically, but she tries not to. Putrid water soaks her still-bare feet, she feels something she doesn't want to know the identity of squishing between her toes. Rats scamper alongside her as she makes her way quickly through the tunnels, their tiny claws scratching away at the grime-encrusted tunnel floor. She loses the guard in the labyrinth, but she doesn't slow. Her mental focus goes towards keeping a quick pace, as she silently counts the distance, lips moving as she calculates she has about a half a block to go. It's only a matter of time before Valdre's entire security force is upon her. Stupid Intel.

The next events are hard to recall completely, but what she does remember is loud voices, the radio crackling, We have her cornered in the sewer on the west side of the building! All personnel to the west side sewers! She remembers hearing footsteps, too many people for her to take down but dammit, she is going to try. They are coming from both sides, so there will be no evasive action.

She thinks,  _knows_ , she shoots some of them, a lot of them. She runs out of bullets, uses the stolen gun and taser, but there are just too many to handle. She feels tranq darts, but when they don't do a thing, they resort to barbaric methods. She can almost feel their shock when she does not go down no matter how many darts pierce her skin. She rips them out, drawing small springs of blood.

There's just too many of them and only one of her. She hears at least four coming up behind her, sees about eight in front of her, feel the vibrations of the footsteps of dozens more racing towards her along the grimly ground. She thinks she killed most of the initial group, but she can't be certain.

They hit her over the head with something. That much is clear when she comes to, and she is hit with so much surprise when she finds herself in a small gray room and not a dark sewer line. Her head feels like it is floating. The lights are harsh, and she has to blink against their ferocity until her eyes adjust. It is concrete with no windows. The ground slopes to a drain in the floor. A security camera is situated on the ceiling in a corner of the room. There is a singular door, steel maybe, with no knob. The air is putrid, smelling like sweat and dust and mold.

She has never been captured before. Come close, certainly. Botswana jumps to mind. ( _An op gone so horribly south that she had to abandon her favorite sniper rifle and even then barely got out alive, plus a broken humorous, separated shoulder, two bullet grazes, one bullet wound, one knife puncture_ ) But never captured, hands and feet bound, dirty, cloth gag jammed between her teeth, lying uncomfortably on the floor. She is chilled and that confuses her until she realizes that she has no clothes on.

Nudity doesn't scare her. Vulnerability isn't something that scares her. She recognizes a dull throbbing coming from deep within her, a rawness between her thighs. She knows what it means. Doesn't really phase her, she's just surprised by it. It is a sensation she feels often enough, but her head is still foggy and  _what the hell did they hit me with?_

She clears a bit of phlegm from her throat and rolls onto her back. Her head is clearing, and she clearly feels a rather large lump on the base of her skull, right where it meets her neck.  _Got the sweet spot, did you? Bastards._

She still feels unnaturally drowsy, but she begins to take stock of her situation. She is in the process of seeing if she could use something to jimmy the lock on her cuffs when the door bursts open. She doesn't try to escape. Not yet, because that would just be impractical.

He doesn't say anything, but she immediately moves herself away from him. Pure human instinct, but she is just playing. Toying. Her bare skin scrapes along the floor like a grater until she is sitting and her back is against the wall. She will put on Maria again. Be terrified and young and confused.

The only remarkable feature he possesses is a jagged scar on his cheek. As a whole, he just looks breath-takingly average. He roughly yanks the gag from her moth, and it falls around her neck like a collar.

Despite his entirely unintimitdating appearance, Widow knows she has to get out of here. Soon. This is what she was trained for.

"Please!" She cries suddenly, purposely raising her voice multiple octaves, "Please don't hurt me!" Widow says this in English. Language barriers make captors uncomfortable. "No Portuguese!" Widow cries, easily falling into the role of terrified captive. Wild eyes and shallow breathing become her focus. She tries to make her eyes water a bit. Makes her body tremble.

The man steps towards her, getting into her face, unaffected by her act, and says in his native tongue, "We know who you are,  _Black Widow_ ," he says, pausing slightly before the revelation of her name. "The question I have for you is this: who do you work for?" So this is what they are after. No one knows who the Widow works for.

She knows her chances are now officially fucked, but doggedly stays the course, "What are you saying?" She leans away from the man, shouting shrilly out the door, "Someone help me!"

He grabs her jaw and wrenches her eyes back to his. She notes that they are dark brown, angry. "Drop the act. If you refuse to cooperate, we have methods of persuading you."

She hates to comply, but the scared woman act is not going to get her out of this. Wild eyes become like glass, cutting and razored. Face deadens to terrifying nonchalance. Body tense with fright slackens to out of place tranquility. She knows how to play this game.

No words will cross her lips. No taunts, no dares to bring on the pain. Just closed lips and uncooperative mind. She hasn't screamed from torture for a long time. He will have to work for it.

The scarred man stands. Says tacitly, "I have no reservations about harming women."

( _There is a reservation for that?_ ) She remembers the first man in her bed, with a trainer in the corner,  _I'm really sorry... My mother taught me better than this..._ She knows that reservations are for the weak minded.

He stands, and she braces herself for whatever is to come. Not exactly a brace, but she knows how to direct her pain.

Instead of a blow, a strike, a burn, a whip, he leaves.

Bt she is not alone for long.

Another man, this one exceptional in that his gut droops over his belt, has multiple chins, and rotting teeth. "They told me you were pretty," he says, voice a nasally hiss. He steps towards her, and she doesn't move. She can practically read his thoughts by the look on his face.

If they think that this is going to break her, then they really have no idea who they are dealing with.

He is crouching down by her, and pulls her legs so that she slides away from the wall and towards him. "But they did not tell me how pretty," he leers, eyes brazenly sweeping her body. His fingers paw at her, her breasts, her stomach, down to her center. She remains limp and unresponsive. She knows this grinds on most men. They hate it when a woman isn't aroused by them. She knows it irks her current captor, her nonchalance, as his face twists from lust to annoyance.

"Not an issue. I'll take them how I get them. It's not the first time I've taken a woman dry." He takes a ring of keys from his belt. She notes it without moving. He moves down her body to unlock her feet shackles. Biggest mistake of his pathetic life. Now that she knows he has the keys, he is no longer useful.

Even with her hands and feet bound, she is deadly. She uses one knee to ram upwards into his throat, and she feels his body shudder deeply in response. This makes him buck upwards, now on his knees. She disentangles her legs from him, and despite the chains and locks binding her ankles, lifts nearly her entire torso off the floor, nearly all her weight resting on her shoulder blades, and his head and neck are between her thighs. It is child's play now.

A small jerk is all it takes, and he falls with half drooping eyes and mouth agape.

She rolls away from him, and snags the keys from his hand With her own, still behind her back. She unlocks her hands quickly, despite the fact that she was unable to see them. She undoes her feet, and stands, pacing quickly towards the door.

They will try to subdue her soon. She would welcome that.

She knows that there is no fast way out unless someone opens it from the outside. She wants to catch them unprepared.

Initially, her plan works like a charm. The door opens the barest amount, and she exploits the crack as if it were a gorge. She doesn't care if she kills them, she just needs to get out. The next room outside hers is filled with dozens of men. With guns. Shit. And then the plan is pretty much shot when she counts them.

She has to hope against hope they won't kill her, hopefully they need her too much to do that. She is a whirlwind of knocked out men and speed and power until she hears a shot.

It feels as if her right knee was swept right out from under her. She ignores it until she tries to make a dash at the shooter, and falls to the ground when she puts weight on her right knee. She almost doesn't notice she is shot until she feels the burn, slowly turning into a fiery agony, looks down and sees her knee bleeding profusely, the scarlet flowing generously onto the floor. She can see the white of her kneecap, the darker shade of her muscle, shrouded by blood.

The preadtors descend, and their prey fights back as much as she can. There are too many hands reaching for her. She thinks she kills a good number of them. There are unmoving bodies on the floor. She is satisfied, hopes that she has put the fear in them. Some are hesitant, reach and pull back, again and again whenever she lashes.

Until one isn't. It is the man with the scar, and he stands over her with a gun pointed right at her chest. She doesn't stop her struggle. ( _Do not yield until death. Death is preferable to giving away information. You must be strong in the face of death. For it is not something to fear, but a measure of protection._ )

He sees that a gun does not stop her. She kills another one of his men. He aims the muzzle towards her right shoulder, pulls the trigger, then the left, and pulls the trigger. It is almost a delayed reaction from when the wounds start to pour blood across her arms and when she finally realizes what has happened.

It is strange for him, but he is mightily impressed. The Black Widow isn't to be trifled with. Shot three times and she is barely yielding.

Does she fear nothing?


	17. São Paulo: Part 2 of 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Warning for non-con as well as graphic descriptions of gore, torture, and violence in this chapter.

**Subject Age: 18 years, 4 months**

The smell of rotting flesh is overwhelming. It is one thing to know exactly how a body goes through decomposition and another thing entirely to watch it happen.

The first stages aren't so bad. They haven't cuffed her again. She would like to laugh at them, when they toss her back into the room with the body of the man she had killed. Knows that nothing has the capability of breaking her. Much less something that is such a rational turn of events.

Livor mortis, rigor mortis, algor mortis. They pass uneventfully, and she almost wishes they would come and interrogate her. The fat, dead man has nothing of use on him. He still smells vaguely like alcohol, beneath the scent of urine and feces. She hasn't relieved herself since she was Maria, so the scent is coming from him. Bowels release upon death.

No one accompanies her back into the room. It is pristine, the room and she does not expend any of her energy investigating. She won't be finding a way out unless it is through that door.

She wants to move, to work, to get herself out and be the indestructible Black Widow. Her hands and feet are free, so she has everything she needs... Getting shot in her most crucial joints have sapped her energy, and she doesn't want to acknowledge the fact that she is in so much pain. Can barely move her arms, her leg. Everything is stiffening. She just wants to slide away for a little while, and her eyes are so heavy. She can't remember the last time she slept. It must have been in Valdre's bed—good God, that sounds like so long ago now. And her attempted escape from that tower led her to also have a sprained ankle, which is quite honestly the least of her problems with three gunshot wounds taking precedence. Just excellent.

She needs her energy. She won't be of any use if she's dead on her feet because she's tired. Sleep just sounds so  _rational_...

Her next conscious thought is that she shouldn't have been so careless as to fall asleep as she jerks awake. ( _Never show weakness to your captors. They will exploit it, and you will be dead_.)

There is no air flowing when the smell starts to get bad. Hours must have passed, and she berates herself for her inability to stay awake. Nothing good came of it- in fact, her shoulders and knee hurt  _more_  now than they did before if that's even possible, and feel as if they are locked up.  _Stupid_ , Black Widow thinks.  _Stupid and weak_. The assassin recalls her training, back to when she was just learning about being captured.

( _Analyze the situation. Take stock of what you have and what you need to do._ )

Well, she doesn't have a lot. That's quite certain. And she needs to get out of the room and back to base. Needs the doctors to fix her.

He has become more bloated, the corpse; she wants to know how all these fucking flies are getting in the room. He smells faintly rotten, but she doesn't pay any heed to it. She has much knowledge about decomposition, knows his internal organs are liquefying. He'll be leaking soon.

When she tries to shift herself so that she is sitting, every wound explodes in pain and molten heat. Before she gets out of the room, she realizes with reluctance, she is going to have to take the bullets out.

She hopes they haven't gone deep, because she knows she's going to have to dig them out whether she wants to or not. And god, she doesn't want to. It hurts, but she doesn't want to acknowledge it. Not supposed to acknowledge it. She feels blood on the back of her left shoulder, so she takes a breath and hopes it was a through-and-through. She heaves her ailing right arm across her body, uses her good leg to prop it up as tears sting her eyes, and gingerly touches the back off her shoulder. The skin is surprisingly cool to her fingertips despite the fact that it feels like fire beneath her skin, burning in the connective tissues; breathing in ragged relief when she recognizes the jagged edges of an exit wound, the splinters of blowback debris embedded it her skin. It's now the least of her worries. Well, the least of her worries above the ankle.

She props herself up on a wall. She hopes she doesn't pass out, but she has a feeling she will. She's never pulled a bullet out of herself before, no anesthetic or even a fucking Advil.

She leans over her knee, arguably the most dire of her gunshot wounds. It is not pleasant, and she growls as she realizes that her chances for escape will be near zero with this knee. It looks like the bullet didn't quite shatter the kneecap, which is on display through torn flesh, and all she can do is pluck the fragmented bullet out of her surrounding muscle that looks almost as if it has been flayed by the dullest of knives.

Black Widow leans back after she has gotten as many of the fragments as humanly possible without actual surgical equipment. All she can do is straighten it and hope that it heals up as well as it can.

She then starts on her right shoulder. It's her dominant hand, and she needs it without a piece of lead stuck up in her shoulder somewhere.

( _Trace the bullet tract. If the bullet is shallow, use two fingers to pull it out. Beware of splintering._ ) She uses her middle finger. She prods the bloody wound, and it burns  _so badly_  she can't help but hiss. She's glad the bullet hit where it did. She could easily be dead right now if it was a little lower. She pushes in to her first knuckle, but has to stop because she's breathing so hard and it hurts so badly she's sweating. Her stomach is turning inside out.

Her eyes sting with unshed tears because  _she is in agony_  when she finally finds the bullet.

She wants to scream in frustration when she realizes it is too deep to just pluck out with two fingers. She starts to sweat some more when she realizes she is going to have to make an artificial exit wound and just push it out. But she has nothing to make an exit wound. Her own blunt fingernails can only do so much.

Her gaze drifts to the dead man.

A macabre idea—a splintered bone could do the job. If it's broken right.

A heavy swallow.

She pulls her finger out of the wound, and she gasps heavily, air hissing and clawing from between her teeth when it is finally out. She takes a few moments but she doesn't want to admit that trying to take the bullet out drained her. Her throat feels like it's contracting, her stomach heaves, but she doesn't submit.

A swallow, a breath, trying to dissuade the worsening nausea, and she hoists herself away from the wall. She can't quite stand, her damaged knee won't allow it, so she moves across the floor using her good leg to pull herself along. She is right up next to the man she killed, takes his decomposing arm in her hands. She breaks the rigor, very nearly breaks his entire lower arm off with the way he is decomposing, and places his elbow on the ground.

The Black Widow in all her injured glory adjusts herself so that she can place her good knee against the middle part of his arm where the bones are at their thinnest, and holds the hand and wrist up as if she were about to split a board. She essentially is, she thinks.

She has broken arms before. It's nothing new when she throws her weight and muscle into the arm, and the combined forces result in a resounding  _crack_.

The once straight lower arm of her victim is now bent at a near-perfect ninety degree angle. A perfect compound fracture. She pushes the wrist towards the elbow, and it slides unnaturally, the only thing holding it being soft tendons and malleable muscle, which catch only slightly, like pulling off leeches. She sees the splintered tip break through the skin, a flash of white smattered in dark blood against slowly discoloring skin. She pushes the bone through some more. She thinks she can hear shouting through the door. Her resolve hardens and the assassin quickly breaks the wrist against the floor so that she can wiggle a broken half of the ulna bone from its bodily confines.

She can definitely hear shouts coming from her captors behind the door. What the hell is she doing? Someone has to get in there!

No time. She moves away from the body. The bone is mostly red with decomposing blood and smells like rot and decay. Not the most sanitary conditions. She wishes she could pray to some deity that she could avoid an infection. She spits on the sharpened end of the bone and wipes the blood and spit off on her bare leg. This will not be pleasant. Mentally crosses her fingers and hopes against hope that maybe her immune system will fight any infections. She's special, maybe she is special in that way too.

The sweating starts again, and she tries to not shake as she reaches her left hand behind her right shoulder. She searches for a spot of soft tissue, and after she shuts her eyes tightly and after taking her tongue between her teeth, the Black Widow stabs herself. She bites down, teeth grinding into her tongue, and her entire body spasms violently at the self-inflicted intrusion. The bone is sharp enough to cut, but blunt enough to feel as if she just jammed a spoon into her shoulder. She'll have to guide the bullet there, since it isn't at the right angle, but right now, she is just doing her damnedest to not groan or scream. She jerks the bone out.

All the liquefied organs and skin and dead blood draining to the middle of the room. Hers chases it down, the red mixing with the red.

Her hand is shaking quite obviously now as she brings her makeshift surgical tool to the primary bullet wound. The door shakes as the men pile up outside, ready to charge into the room. There's no time to draw this out any more than she already has. She shoves the bone into the wound, almost instantaneously comes in contact with the bullet, can't stop the scream that grinds out. Her breath is thready and fast as the door opens, and there is literally no time left as she uses a fist to pound the bullet out of her shoulder, like a fucking railroad spike. She can't help herself and she throws up nothing but bile and dry heaves.

It slides through, and she wishes she could feel some relief as the bullet plinks out of her, clicking against the concrete wall and leaving a trail of drying blood, but she doesn't. Only pain and roiling waves in her abdomen and she doesn't even have the strength to pull the cadaverous scalpel from where it sits lodged between her bones.

She is sure they're swarming her like bees, but doesn't worry about the men anymore because the pain and nausea overwhelm her and white and gray closes over her vision until she can no longer feel the pain.

She wakes up much later ( _at least she thinks its much later_ ), and the bone is no longer in her shoulder, and the body, the realized  _gold mine_  of weaponry is gone. Her shoulder feels like it is only a low ember now rather than a blaze, but as soon as she moves the inferno erupts again, and she just doesn't have the strength to deal with this any more. It is all she can do with what she has left to move herself onto her back, and she loses the battle with unconciousness.

* * *

Sometime later, a group of men come. There are five of them and are all  _very_  large and  _very_  muscular. Her trained eyes automatically focus on the one who stands in the corner with an AK-47. Her shoulders, her leg, hell, her whole  _body_  feels so stiff and sore, like she can't even lift a finger in defiance and the barrel pointed right at her is quite the deterrent without all the tightness and pain. She wants to hurt, to  _kill_ , and her hands and legs are uncuffed and she suddenly knows that this is the ultimate torture. Defenselessness.

Not that she can't deal with that. She can and will.

They seem to have a plan of attack as four of the group advance upon her. She struggles in vain to get away, and the agony that comes in its wake makes it seem hardly worth it because there is nowhere she can really go. Her knee is emanating waves of pain, and even if she could run, she is ever aware of the solid walls of concrete. They have her backed into a corner, the walls rough at her back, and she can't lash out with her hands because her shoulders have been rendered incapacitated and knee on just this side of useless. Three of them hold her down. She tries to rebel against their hands ( _she hates being touched_ ) but it doesn't hinder them. It doesn't hinder the one who brutally forces himself inside her, without preamble or hesitation.

It always hurts somewhat, either sex or rape, but she can't hide the grimace on this one. There's too much pain, the wounds in her shoulders are raw, brutalized, especially the right one with the rough treatment she just put it through and her knee seems like it's been blown to pieces. She hears him growl in pleasure, and the others are shouting indecent cheers at him.

"Fuck her 'til she bleeds, Cano!"

She won't acknowledge it, but bleed she does.

When 'Cano' finishes, they take turns. The one right after the first comments on how awfully she is bleeding. "Got razors on that cock we don't know about?" asks the second man with a laugh.

Everything hurts, inside, outside. She closes her eyes and goes elsewhere while they call her their bitch and their little slut and their red whore.

It seems endless.

The last one pulls out of her, and the first one considers going again. One of them, the one who started with the AK, says he has to save something for his wife. They all think this is very funny. By the time they have had their fun with her, she feels as if she has been taken so many times there is literally no skin left inside her. Feels as if they've jammed themselves so far in she can feel them in her throat, vile and burning and acrid.

She realizes too late that that taste isn't an aftershock. She turns her face to the drain and heaves only stomach acid into her mouth and she spits it out in the drain as the dry heaving begins. The Black Widow doesn't understand why she feels so vulnerable and exposed and downright filthy. She isn't supposed to  _feel_  like this. ( _Emotion is weakness._ )

Understanding dawns soon after the quakes stop, and she knows she won't be escaping. Not on her own. She tries to take a deep breath, only succeeds in getting a lungful of rotting corpse stench. ( _Not_ ) for the first time in her life, she regrets killing someone. Rotten corpse stench and the smell of sweat and men fill her as she breathes one more time.

She'll wait. They'll send someone for her. They have to, she's their top asset, and they won't just let all the years of careful planning go down the drain. The thought is a comfort. She is valued by them. They won't leave her.

So she waits.

* * *

The days turn into weeks. Time becomes very relative. She can't remember the last time she had something to eat and can feel all the classic signs of starvation- her muscles, painstakingly strengthened, are beginning to atrophy. Her once solid abdomen is caving in on itself. She can count each of her ribs, and her hipbones are sticking out so far she swears they'll break the skin. The only thing on her mind is food. A part of her wishes the body was still in the cell she she could at least have  _something_. God, she is so hungry. And her mouth is dry and sticky because they only give her enough water to stay alive and she has been forced to drink her own urine multiple times.

The Black Widow, one of the most prolific assassins the world over, hates how they have made her so weak.

Her wounds are healing. Slowly. Painfully. She has always been a quick healer, but she is always stiff and uncomfortable and in pain. Her knee still doesn't look good, but can only be grateful to the shooter's shitty aim that her kneecap isn't shattered. Doesn't mean her muscles aren't torn to shreds, though. And it developed a nasty infection a few days ago. It isn't spreading, which she thinks must be due to her excellent immune system or something, and that means she won't have to cut off her own leg. Taking the bullets out had been hard enough. And she wouldn't even have a tool this time.

She hears some of the men complaining about how they're afraid she'll die before she gives them answers. With her ear pressed up against the door, their commander asks them why that would be a problem. She knows their answer before she hears it. They want her as their plaything. They don't want to give that up yet.

Their visits have become the only constant in her captivity. Many of them have been in multiple times, but she has stopped looking at faces. She knows she'll remember them when she gets out. Her photographic memory wouldn't allow anything else, and she is sure the Black Widow will eventually make grand plans to slaughter them all in a spectacularly violent fashion. But she can't right now. Can barely remember her own name, let alone consider a bloody vengeance.

Some indeterminate amount of time later, another crew of men come. She absently ponders how many of them that they even have at their disposal, but her thought processes are so sluggish she can barely remember why that knowledge would be useful. She also hopes that they'll be quick. Her thighs are still raw from the last round of her captors who had come through, and she has bled enough down there already.

Instead of forming a loose circle around her and then proceeding to hold her down as they normally do when they come to use her, they are quick and efficient as they jerk her to her feet, and her legs threaten to collapse as soon as she is upright. She leans heavily on her captors ( _she distantly hates them even more_ ) and her infected knee won't bend, won't even work the way she wants it to.

She is led out of the room, and her conditioned mind immediately jumps on the fact that they are leading her outside her prison and into the halls. Despite the starvation and dying brain cells, she knows an opportunity when she sees one.

Escape.

Freedom.

The ideas leap into her mind, settling into her limbs and she prepares to strike out at them. She has taken down more men, but not under such dire circumstances and certainly not when she is in such poor condition.

The Black Widow is willing to risk it though. With three gunshot wounds, dehydration, and malnutrition she is ready to forfeit her life in order to  _just be free_  of this place.

Because no one is coming for her, and she chastises herself internally for thinking she even has value. This is exactly what they trained her for—she's a tool of the republic, an instrument of justice and peace, and a gifted individual who has been chosen for a purpose that is greater than herself and no one else can do. A privilege. And she needs to fight for it. ( _To waste such talent would be criminal._ ) Because in the end, she's just a tool. Expendable and insignificant.

She is on her own.

Her fists clench, and she is preparing to crush some windpipes until... What is that smell? They have led her to a room with a chair and a table and my God... There is food.

A dinner plate of epic proportions in her eyes, and a veritable feast for her starved body. She leans, almost lunges, towards it with the fervor only a person who has gone many weeks without food could even begin to understand. Her eyes are wild with desperation, the rich scent of the food beckoning her like a siren song. They release her and she basically collapses in the chair at the small table. They've given her no silverware but that doesn't stop her from digging in like an absolute savage. There is chicken and potatoes and spinach and snow peas and she swears she has never ate a more delicious array of anything in her life. It's not neat or pretty and her guard is totally down because her body and mind are literally singing because  _she has food_. She finishes far too quickly, and the men drag the table and plate away, and she misses it as soon as it is gone, but the feeling of being full is just too good.

Without warning, she heaves forward on the chair, and the beautiful, beautiful food is expelled from her body. She ate too quickly, and even if she hadn't, it has been so  _long_.

When they finally tie her to the chair, her body is simply euphoric, and her stomach doesn't feel so much like a shriveled pear despite the fact that it is cramping, and her limbs feel less shaky. They don't make a big effort in tying her. She looks so harmless right now with her birdlike wrists and knobby bones.

The euphoria lasts as long as she can stave off the inevitable conclusion that this is where the tried and true torture methods will be brought in from their arsenal. That's why they bothered to feed her. So they wouldn't accidentally kill her. She recognizes the clamps and car batteries, the tubs of water, the brass knuckles. All she has seen.

All she can survive.

She smiles.

* * *

**2 Days Later**

Far away from the humid streets of São Paulo, the Sierra Nevadas rise up, discernible from the deep blue sky by a slight gray hue, and the caps of white that shine like lodestars in the daytime. The desert floor cools as the sun has fallen and the moon is now high in the sky. Disrupting the endless sand and low sagebrush is a massive building, just barely visible in the dead of a desert night. There are few lights, casting an unobtrusive glow across the one touch of humanity in a landscape still dominated by mother nature.

Within the facility, the emblem of an eagle is emblazoned on the walls. The eagle watches as SHIELD Director Nick Fury puts in a call to his most trusted agent.

The agent answers from a low warehouse building in São Paulo. The bow looks archaic to the naked eye in such a sleek, modern facility.

The director asks if he has found anything yet.

Found something he has. Bodies litter the halls, full of blood and gore and it looks like something out of a Hollywood film it is so graphic, but he knows its not. Knows whose work this is. "A lot of bodies. They have cameras, too. It's likely we'll be able to find where they stored the video. Whether or not we will actually have the feed is doubtful."

"Trace her path first. Then look for video. If she's consistent, there probably won't be any left anyway."

"Not my first rodeo with this one, Director." The agent with his bow and arrows has been trying to track the Russian assassin for weeks, and when they received intel that she had been captured by private contractors in Brazil... Well, he was as happy as he could be expected to be. He doesn't rejoice in the loss of human life, never has and probably never will. Unlike the psychopath whose work he is seeing the fruits of as he tracks the string of bodies. At least if he finds her this will stop. They received word from their sources that she had escaped about 15 hours ago, and left quite the trail of destruction behind her.

"I am always amazed at how you make my formal title sound like insubordination."

"Phil hates that, too," he responds wryly, missing his normal handler. Sadly, Coulson is away doing 'something highly classified' and Fury has always taken a special interest in their Russian friend.

Without further preamble, Fury orders his agent to report when he has finished his inspection and severs the communication, and Agent Clint Barton is on his own.

His first objective is to find the beginning of all this chaos. Walk through her path, confirm with video if it still exists.

He follows the hall to the most likely place they kept her according to the building schematics, to a door to a concrete room. A literal bunker with no way out. A computer monitor sits with the flurry of white and black taking up the screen beside the doorway in the small room that is devoid of dead bodies.

He opens the door with only a general idea of what he would find within. The room itself does not look so terrible. No larger than twelve by twelve, walled and floored completely in cement. No windows. One drain with red stains trailing into it, and the remains of human excrement on top of it. The only truly notable feature of the room is the stench. The smell is awful, a potent mixture of human refuse, sweat, and... is that decomposition? He puts a hand to his face out of reflex, and tries not to gag.  _What happened here?_

He sees the camera on the ceiling in the corner. Figures that is what the monitor was for.

He exits quickly and slams the door, all too happy to be away from that pit. It echoes down the hallway filled with the dead. Goes to the computer.

There is no way to type any commands since it is just a simple monitor, so he searches for a USB port. He finds one, and inserts the extraction software via flash drive. Hell if he knows if it will work. Tech services gave it to him in his searches for the Black Widow, and has thus far proven unfruitful.

Which is probably why he is so flabbergasted when the stored feed is rejuvenated on the screen, and a small bar at the bottom indicates the file is downloading. He  _cannot_  believe she didn't destroy it. She  _always_  destroys the video. A small feeling of victory tightens in his stomach.

He knows he should keep searching the facility, but he is drawn to the screen by her. The first clear images of the Black Widow SHIELD has ever obtained.

She is such a little thing for such a deadly killer. And beautiful. So, so beautiful, but Clint knows that there is a hidden emotionless malice behind those simpering eyes. Her red hair isn't long, worn loosely around her shoulders with a distinct curl to it. Her lack of clothing comes as a bit of a shock, and Clint almost feels compelled to cover his eyes, to look away for the sake of propriety. He may be a man, but he still likes to think that he still holds onto some form of decency. An old holdover from the days before he had so much blood on his hands.

But the SHIELD agent only stares at her nude form with a clinical eye. The nudity should have been unsurprising. Many captors are fond of it. You never realize how much you hide behind your clothes until you are forced to be without them. A lesson he has learned on several occasions.

He sees her first act, and he is almost surprised the guard didn't fall for it. She looks so goddamned innocent with the watery eyes and the shrill cries of terror.

_We know who you are, Black Widow._

And then she goes silent and cold. She puts off an air of impenetrability, of strength and intimidation; like she is above them, she looks superior with an expression of veiled smugness.

He sees her first failed escape attempt. She kills the man with such ease, and Clint scowls at the fact that she feels absolutely no remorse, has no nightmares in the predawn hours about all the souls she has claimed. She rushes for the door, and it's thrown wide open by her lithe form. He can't see what is happening outside the room but he is sure that if he had audio, he would be getting an earful of dying men. There are three flashes of a light, indicative of gunshots, and all of a sudden Hawkeye thinks,  _she's dead?_

But she's not. She must have been shot three times, the red wounds revealing themselves as she is tossed back into the cell. Both shoulders and a knee.  _How the hell did she escape on that leg?_ Clint can't tell all that well from the imprecise pixelation on the video, but he thinks that she must have shattered a kneecap. The knee is the worst place to get shot with too many crucial bones in the way of the angry bullet.

He knows he's gaping as he watches her perform surgery on herself with a dead man's arm bone. Hawkeye tries to breathe slowly at the pained sounds that seem to tear unwillingly from her; he reminds himself what she is, and doesn't feel so sympathetic anymore.

He speeds the footage, figuring he could maybe get a sense of what may have happened by the rest of it.

The visits by all the men. The continual rapes. Her dry heaves when they finish. Agent Barton skips ahead.

The way her ribs and spine become more and more pronounced. Her desperate attempts at survival.

His throat is burning. Call it idealism, call it naivety. What he is seeing as absolutely barbaric. No matter what she is. He tries to remind himself of what she has done, how many lives she has ended or destroyed... She looks so damn pitiful, down there on the concrete floor, shivering like it was ice.

The last image before the screen goes black is the men taking her away. Probably for torture. She staggers to her feet, and they drag her along with them, naked and thin, and good God, that  _knee_. He turns from the now-dark screen, the feed over and a clearer picture of what happened in that room. The download has completed and he takes the flash drive before leaving behind the room.

He needs to find where her escape began.

He follows the scent of decay, and finds the trail of bodies that begins in a room with what looks like the remains of a smashed chair and as he glances around, sees the classic torture devices. Waterboarding. Electrocution. Flecks of blood across brass knuckles. There are four bodies, three on one side of the room where it looks like they were piled up against the door and then shoved out of the way, and one on the other. He crouches down to examine the three. Died from gunshot wounds, obviously, shot from mildly close range, but no less than fifteen feet.

The lone body on the other side died from a snapped neck. Clint had noticed his ragged state of dress as soon as he walked in the room. There are only scraps of shirt left behind and the guard's jeans are torn up. A quick scan of the room reveals that none of the guards have belts or shoelaces. She must have been desperate for weaponry. He begins to understand her escape. She used one of her guards as a human shield. The tattered clothes, however, he's a bit foggy on.

Another look around and he spots a camera, lying haphazardly on its side on a tripod, probably knocked over in a struggle. There must be recorded surveillance of what transpired in this room, he realizes, if she didn't destroy the first set of footage.

She must have managed to untie herself he figures when he sees the unfurled ropes near the wooden remains. That's when the bodies started.

_Her breathing is ragged. Her muscles spasm and twitch sporadically from the treatment with the car battery, but sixteen volts is hardly enough to truly harm her. Hurt her, sure._

_Her lungs quiver for air as the most recent visit involved total submersion in a tank of water with the top locked closed against her scrabbling fingers. She coughs occasionally, still tasting the stale water in her lungs._

_Her face is swollen from repeated blows, and in some places, her skin is broken and bleeding from the times they favored brass buckles over bare fists. Both of her eyes are black, but they haven't swollen shut, so she is glad lack of vision will not present problems._

_They've left her alone for a few hours and it has given her the chance to truly consider escape again. She takes stock of her injuries- at least three cracked ribs, but she doesn't think they are broken, maybe one or two cracks in some of her facial bones, quite a few bruises and lacerations, a few third and second-degree burns, and all on top of the three gunshot wounds._

_She feels weakened by weeks of terrible treatment, little sleep, and barely any food and water, but that's not an issue. She knows how to fight like prey backed into a corner, run ragged by pursuers. This is what she was trained for._

_There's four guards. One has a belt and she eyes it as if she were avaricious and the belt was gold. She can use it. She plans her attack before she begins to slowly, unobtrusively, untie her hands. She wriggles her wrists, loosening the ropes ever so slowly, hyperaware of the eyes on her, and tries to reach her fingers back towards the ropes. They didn't bind her legs. The men still come sometimes between torture sessions. They've been very thorough. She feels so sore, especially inside where it's so raw it feels like she's been bludgeoned. Which, when she truly considers it, she essentially has been. They still keep her naked, even though she's quite certain they don't find her very attractive anymore. She's swollen and bloody, starved and emaciated. They just want the release. Animals._

_Animals she is looking forward to decimating in the next three seconds._

_Her hands are free and she doesn't waste a moment. They noticed when she got one hand free but by then it was too late. She puts no weight on her right knee as she goes for the guard closest to her chair. She drives an elbow into his throat, just enough to stun, and wraps an arm around his neck, subjugates him into being a crutch and she swings herself so that she is behind his back, all on one leg. The Black Widow ignores how her arm is imperceptibly shaking and uses the guard's body as a human shield. He's carrying an AK-47 in his right hand, and she shoves his finger off the trigger with her free hand and replaces it with her own and easily picks off the guards. She flinches at each shot, knowing it's going to draw attention to the room. They are all down, and the only one left alive is crying for mercy from her._

_He rates not a second consideration from the Black Widow and she snaps the neck of the man who unwillingly protected her. As he falls, she falls since he was the only thing keeping her on her feet. She takes the belt and only has time to grab two_ _guns and a shoelace before she hears footsteps thundering down the hall. She's got to hurry. Dragging herself across the room, she shuts the door and turns the locking mechanism. Shoves the three bodies in front as well, since odds are that someone is going to have a key._ _It'll buy her some time._

_She rolls quickly instead of dragging over to the chair she was held in. She picks it up and the shoddy workmanship does the work for her as she slams the chair to the ground. It fractures apart, and she quickly sorts through the wood and snatches two pieces that are a few inches taller than her hands, and a few shorter bits that are just a few inches in length._

_She needs to run and her knee needs support._

_She rolls back to the one guard whose neck she snapped. The assassin makes quick work of the flannel shirt he wore, ripping it into lengthwise strips about an inch or two wide with her fingers and teeth._

_There is pounding on the door. She glances towards it quickly, and sees they haven't disengaged the lock yet. She still has time._

_She takes the longer pieces of wood from the chair and places them on either side of her ailing knee, and secures them tightly in place at the top and bottom with two strips of flannel._

_She needs to finish quickly, as she hears the men calling for someone with a key._

_With the remaining wood bits and cloth, she crafts a makeshift splint for her knee. She wraps her knee as tightly as she can, even has to rip up the guards's jeans for extra bindings, steals the shoelaces off all the dead men and uses three of the eight to make sure her mish-mashed splint is secure._

_The door opens, and hits her bulwark of humans. It's time for her to go. She tests the splint out gingerly. Not perfect, not by a long shot, but she can put weight on that leg and that's an improvement. She takes the four guns, and smiles when she finds all the clips full and ready to kill._

Agent Barton exits the room into the primary hallway leading out of the facility. This is where the scene becomes one of a graveyard. The blood spatter and shell casings give him a pretty good idea of what happened.

_She blasts out of the room like a hellcat, wielding two of the pilfered AK-47s with the other two against her back. Her other pieces of weaponry: one belt and five shoelaces. The belt is cinched around her bony waist and it sags drastically even though it is held through the absolute tightest hole. The shoelaces are hung on it like they are rags on a towel rack. She hopes the guns will get her out of here, because her injuries are in agony, burning her more and more with each step she takes. The splint she put on her knee will not hold for very long. Despite her mastery of close-quarters combat, Black Widow doesn't know if she will be able to manage for very long if it comes to that on this day. She prays it won't._

_In a hail of blood and bullets, she begins her trek down the long hallway to the doors of the facility._

Hawkeye carefully picks his way around the masses of bodies dead from gunshot wounds. She must have dragged herself along this corridor in such pain. He sees two abandoned AK-47s. She ran out of bullets here, but the shell casings didn't stop.

_She is almost there._

_She can see the doors as the blood from her knee begins to trickle down her leg; the makeshift splint has soaked through. She shoulders weep with blood and ache from the concussion of the recoiling weapons. Her entire body screams from the strain, screams from weakness. All her body wants to do is collapse, but the spy doesn't let herself give into such temptation._

_She has reached some sort of front room, and she hears a panicked voice off to the side. She whips her head and the barrels of her weapons at the voice, and the words out of his terrified mouth are the last things she wants to hear. "_ _Please, we need the police! She is killing everyone!" He sounds like a child, petulant and afraid and crying for his mother._

_No. No. No. Not when she is so close. There are so few of them left, but they are no longer attempting to fight back. They are fleeing. She hears them call her the devil in a woman's body, that they literally cannot kill her. Nothing will stop her evil._

_She doesn't care. She just needs to get out._

Ahead, the trail of bodies stops abruptly, only one man lying cold on the floor with a phone clutched in his hand, the muscles still rigid.

Hawkeye knows what lies outside. He'd had a general briefing of the event before he boarded the jet, and knows that outside he will find the bodies of seven police officers. Three apparently dead by strangulation, and four dead by injuries apparently caused by their own weapons. He sweeps this first room, and it lacks any sort of deboinar flourish, and is just as dank and boring as the rest of the warehouse. Then he spots the door stamped with the word  _Surveillance_. He almost laughs. Could they be any more obvious?

He kicks the door in because he has no spare patience for picking locks today. There are many blank monitors, like the one he found outside the Black Widow's prison. Thankfully, there is a keyboard here, and that is all he needs. He inserts the USB and the screens flicker to life, and he begins to seek out the video he needs. Parking Lot Cam A. Cam B. Cam C. Gives him clear angles of the whole parking lot and a ways beyond as he opens the video of what went down not even a day before.

_The Russian spy limps out of the building, her steps frantic, her expression bordering on deranged. The only things in her mind are her objectives: Get a safe distance away. Go to safe house. Treat injuries. Request extraction._

_Her weapons are out of ammo and she tosses away the extra weight. As soon as the abandoned AKs hit the ground, she hears the squeal of a police siren. "Fuck," she growls in Russian, under her breath in one of her first words in weeks._

_She is limping towards the nearest alleyway, to the darkness and to hiding places. She marvels at how freaking far away it is when the first squad car screeches to a halt twenty feet away from her._

_No. No. This cannot happen. Police are not a part of the plan._

_Get a safe distance away. Go to safe house. Treat injuries. Request extraction._

_She is still limping away when the voice of a São Paulo police officer requests sharply and loudly, "This is the São Paulo police!" No shit, Sherlock. "Get on your knees and put your hands on your head!"_

_"We are armed and will shoot!"_

_Three squad cars pull around her. Seven police officers emerge. They vary in age from early to mid fifties to a young man who looks barely older than the Black Widow herself._

_She is outnumbered and outgunned._

_So she does the only thing she can do: go along and manipulate._

_It is surprisingly easy to make herself cry as she turns with her hands in the air. As soon as they see her tear-stained face, two officers drop their weapons to their sides and slowly approach her as if she were a skittish horse. "Don't do that," they mutter to their fellow officers, making a gesture for them to lower their weapons. "Can't you see you're scaring her?"_

_All of the officers step out from behind their protective car doors since they don't consider a belt and shoelaces 'armed and dangerous.' How silly they are. How little they truly know._

_She lets her body tremble, and is sure she looks terrified. "Please, don't hurt me," she requests in Portuguese. Her voice cracks and wobbles artificially, and she knows she is getting on their good side as another officer reholsters his gun and joins the two closest to her._

_"We won't hurt you, we just want to ask you a few questions." His eyes are absorbing her appearance. Probably thinks she is overwrought with emotional trauma by the way she looks._

_"Just don't hurt me," she pleas pitifully again, and she slowly lowers her arms as if to beg for forgiveness._

_The rest of the weapons come down. "I'm calling an ambulance," says the youngest of the group. "She looks hurt real bad." No, she decides firmly. She has to act now before anyone else catches wind that she is in São Paulo._

_There are the three officers within an arm's length, the three milling by the doors, the one preparing to radio for an ambulance. With everything she has left inside of her, her hands close around the last two shoelaces, the others lost in the warehouse, and throws her injured knee into the diaphragm of the cop directly in front of her. The act is doubly painful for her as it is for him, but he lets out a stunned groan and collapses to his knees, while she uses the shoelaces as makeshift garrotes and throws them around the necks of the two stunned officers._

_They both struggle valiantly against her, but she just pulls tighter, the confiscated laces digging into the soft skin of their necks. The four officers have noticed her fight (her desperation) and have redrawn their weapons, but she is clever enough to avoid being shot by hiding herself behind the man downed by her knee, and the other two whose necks are nearly sliced through with the violent pressure behind the shoelaces. Their movements are becoming more and more feeble. She has a wall of bodies in front of her as she steals a gun out of one of the holsters. Hell if she knows which one, or even cares at this point._

_She shifts the strangling laces to one hand. The man who had been kneed is putting up a fuss now, and she has to use her belt in the same way she used the laces. She quickly undoes the buckle and adds him to her growing collection of dying men. There is no preamble, no demands or requests for freedom. She won't be leaving any witnesses to her carnage._

_Her body is shaking quite obviously now. The pain is almost the only thing her brain can register. She raises the gun._

_(Mind over matter, Black Widow. Ignore it.)_

_She tries and tries to shove the pain aside as she fires off nearly the entire clip with a shaking arm, and feels sloppy for using so many bullets to take out only three targets. She pulls the laces and belt tighter on the throats of the men who are now losing their grip on consciousness, so she lets go of the ends of her weapons that seared into her palm so badly they left bloody tracks._

_She makes sure they are all dead and uses the remaining three bullets to ensure they never get up again._

_Leave no witnesses._

_Her vision is growing foggy as she dispatches them. When it is over, when her body is crumbling like a dead leaf, the gun falls from her fingers, and she literally has no energy to bend down and pick it up. The pain is overwhelming. Maybe she already has been overwhelmed by it, but she just keeps moving._

_She begins her trek towards the alleyway._

_Get a safe distance away. Go to safe house. Treat injuries. Request extraction._

Hawkeye is, for the umpteenth time, blown away by the Russian assassin. Will she never quit? It seems the only thing she would ever fall to would be Death's own hand. How has she not collapsed by now? Any normal human being would never have been able to pull of such feats as she had after she had gone through intense torture  _and_  with three gunshot wounds. It seems impossible.

_And then a thought strikes her and it is so unbelievably basic that she just wants to scream because she doesn't think she has it left in her to deal with it. It is such a novice mistake, one she had never made, even before she was out of the Red Room._

_There were_ seven _officers. She only killed six._

_She turns her head to sound of scuffling feet, and there he is, the young officer who had volunteered to call her an ambulance._

_How she kept herself going before suddenly leaves her in a rush as she tries to take another step. Her body just quits. Literally, everything in her just goes limp and she falls like a marionette without a puppeteer. Nothing there to pull her strings and make her move._

_Nothing in her wants to move, but she can't just go gently into that goodnight. She needs to fight. To be chosen is a privilege._

_She moves away from the advancing police officer by the barest threads of whatever energy she has left, and her tenuous grasp is weaker than cornsilk. But she can't go gently._

_He is young. A rookie, by the looks of how stiffly he holds his gun at her._

_He slows his pace so that he is about five feet away from her shakily retreating form. "What is your name?" The dialect of Portuguese is slightly different, as is his accent. He's not from São Paulo. Probably a poor, remote farming village she surmises as she sees the scarring on his hands and forearms that comes with mastering a scythe. No rings on his hands. Unmarried. A tattoo of a artistic cross on his inner forearm indicates he is possibly religious._

_All this she knows about him without him saying even five words to her. She sees the radio on his shoulder, and decides the try and stall him. He is a newbie. Either forgot to call for backup or thinks he is good enough to handle her on his own. She needs to keep it that way. Give herself time to recover and keep other police away. Whatever she says is of no real consequence. He is going to be dead as soon as she stops trembling. "Black Widow."_

_"Is that your given name?" The young officer asks with a curious look in his eye._

__His inquiry is met by a brick wall._ "Yes."_

_"I don't believe you."_

_She has enough energy to manage a slight chuckle. "Tough."_

_He seemed oddly comforted by her laugh. As if he thinks it means she is normal. "Come on. Everyone has a name. Mine is Ambròsio Soares."_

_She shrugs noncommitally. "My name still remains the same, Ambròsio Soares," she says, still using her good leg to move herself away. It is not that she is afraid of him. She just doesn't trust him, and he is the only thing standing between her and her freedom. She needs distance to mount any sort of offensive once she recovers._

_"I don't want to hurt you. Just calm down."_

_She wants to roll her eyes. Hurt her? Apparently he doesn't notice any of her injuries already. Instead, she answers, "I am calm." Just stall him._

_"Stop moving away then."_

_Why not? She is exhausted and her wounds are throbbing and her knee is numb with pain. She stops, and much to her surprise, he does as well. "Happy?" Black Widow asks mirthlessly._

_He answers equally seriously, "No. Do you have any idea how many men you just killed?" He hasn't seen the inside of the building, so he must think that 6 men are an astronomical number. How little he knows. Her eyes constantly flick to the radio that has thus far remained silent and unused. She needs to keep it that way._

_"Let's see... The standard AK-47 holds thirty rounds. I used all the rounds in four guns, and I probably got one guy for every three or so bullets. So upwards of forty. Not counting the ones I killed with the belt and shoelaces. Ah, and your fellow officers, so upwards of forty-six." She needs to delay him. Her knee shakes like a leaf, and her entire body is rejoicing being on the ground. She doesn't want to be here on the ground, not doing everything in her power to escape._

_He has a sick look on his face, casts a look over his shoulder at the doors of the facility. They are glass, and covered in blood. His sick look becomes even greener. Of all the things she expected him to say, to do, throw up, curse her and God and the universe, call for backup, try to shoot her, he does none of them. He asks in a small voice, "Why did you do it?"_

_It should seem obvious, but she realizes to a green cop looking in, he is so naïve to the ways of the world. Her tone is as condescending as it is commonplace as she says, "A job gone incredibly bad."_

_"A job?"_

_She laughs and is pleased when her body doesn't tremble with exhaustion as it had before. He will be ready to run soon. Just keep him distracted. "Come on, you may be a kid but even you know there are assassins out there." As she calls him 'kid' she ignores the fact that he is probably older than herself. Physically, if not actually._

_"You're an assassin?" His gun begins to tremble slightly along with his voice._

_Her shoulders and knee don't feel as heavy as they did when she dropped. So she shrugs nonchalantly, as though the bullet wounds in her shoulders are no big deal. She swallows a hiss. "And a spy, but the logistics aren't important."_

_She watches his Adam's apple bob, and can see the faint shine on his palms as he shifts his weapon around that tells her he is growing nervous enough for sweaty palms. "Why do you do it?"_

_"I just told you."_

_He shakes his head, apparently finding some of his courage again. "You told me what you are, not why you do it."_

_She hesitates slightly. He raises a fair question, but one that she cannot afford to ask. "I was born into it." A automatic answer. She doesn't consider these things. She gingerly moves her knee and legs. She wants to run. She needs to kill him and run before anything happens._

_"No kid is born into this," he says assuredly. She thinks of the tattoo on his arm._

_"Your idealism is almost admirable, Officer Soares." She never realized how nice it sounds to be idealistic. As if the world and society would exist on its own without people like her, resolving conflict without violence. If only. She kills for justice and peace. Justice and peace._

_"It's not idealism. No child is born with a desire to kill." It's the same assuredness she heard before._

_She scoffs discriminately. "I would beg to differ."_

_"So you enjoy killing?"_

_She is about to comment on the utter absurdity and audacity of his claim, but as she truly listens to the question, it makes her pause, and she feels discombobulated when she comes to the realization that she isn't sure how to answer. None of the sudden indecisiveness is shown on her face. "It's what I do."_

_"But do you enjoy it?" Will he not just stop talking? She wonders if this officer remembers that he is talking to a deadly spy and assassin. A spy and assassin who would not even be having this conversation if she could just muster the energy to move her limbs._

_"You know, you have an annoying knack for not dropping a subject," she comments, almost smirking. She hasn't truly smiled at anyone in what seems like a long time._

_"Do you?" Soares persists stubbornly. There is curiosity in his eyes. He truly wants to know. And he still hasn't called for backup, so she answers, confidently and steadily. This is what she knows._

_"My country needs me. I must do things that I do not enjoy for the good of the people, and I do it because I know how important it is. I've learned to appreciate the necessity."_

Clint Barton nearly chokes on his own tongue at her answer. Has he been wrong about the Black Widow all along? His once-loathing changes to murky confusion in a blink. Is her perceived psychopathy just a byproduct of her absolute, unwavering dedication to her country? Perhaps she was unwillingly dragged into this life.

SHIELD's investigation into the Black Widow's past has been like tearing down a mountain armed with only a pair of tweezers. I seems that the Reds did an excellent job of erasing who she had been, if she even was anyone before she was the Black Widow. Then, when the Soviet Union collapsed, it seemed everything that might have been tied to her former identity was scattered like feathers in the wind. All SHIELD knows for sure is that she was born in Russia. Perhaps she doesn't even remember who she was.

It's disheartening, watching this not-meant-to-be assassin lie on the ground, still conversing with the police officer.

Why is she even giving him her attention? He figured that when she went down, it was because of the absolute horrendous strain she was putting on fresh injuries, but why is she talking?

It suddenly occurs to him exactly why- she is stalling. Gaining her strength back so she can... can kill the cop and make a run for it. That's exactly what she is doing, he sees. ( _He won't admit it yet, but it scares him that he would be doing the exact same thing._ )

Is she even telling the truth? That thought derails his journey towards something other than hatred. She is probably just pulling answers out of thin air, and in doing so, is buying herself time to recover and escape. Suddenly, sought-out empathy vanishes into thin air.

That's all it is.

Smoke and mirrors by the ultimate manipulator.

_Officer Soares doesn't seem as pleased with her answer as she does. "To what end? Do they ever tell you why you are sent to kill people?"_

_She growls low in her throat in annoyance. She hasn't questioned these principles in a what seems like a long time. "It's not my job to look for reasons."_

_"Then many people would call you irrational."_

_She feels a brush of irritation. She has never taken criticism well. "How so?"_

_"You never question why you do something. If you do not question something, then how are you to know it is the right thing to do?"_

_"If my country asks me to do something, I must do it. I can never disappoint my country." She bristles at the direction this line of questioning is headed, and she gingerly tries her limbs again. Easier. And her energy is being fueled by her vehemence, and she knows she will be ready soon._

_"But at what cost to yourself?"_

_Another very simple question that she has answered the same way since before she can remember. "My life has no value. I am an instrument of my country. I am theirs before I am mine."_

_He could not have looked more insulted had she slapped him across the face. "How can you say your life has no value?"_

_"I'm not here for a philosophical debate."_

_"I just asked a simple question about your beliefs."_

_Her vehemence grows into something not so platonic any more. "I am not supposed to have beliefs." She shifts slightly so that she is sitting whilst leaning forward. She is almost ready. Her arms are no longer shaking. "I kill people," she states frankly, "That is my job. I do it well, and no one can do what I do. My country needs me to maintain justice and peace."_

_"How is shooting a building full of innocent men justice and peace?"_

__That is the last straw._ Suddenly, all the pent up rage and hatred and agony and suffering and pain just flood out of her in one violent snap. "They were not innocent," she hisses, and despite a still wobbling knee, springs herself onto the young officer. His wide eyes and stiff posture tell her that he was absolutely unprepared when she attacked, and she easily dislocates his shoulder and then pries the gun from his limp hand. "You see, Officer," she begins, using the title like a taunt, "No one is innocent. They always ask you for more, and when you don't give it, they make you hand it over on a fucking silver platter." She remembers death in a white room and feels the rage and helplessness that comes along with the memory, and digs the gun into the soft flesh beneath his chin, "I have been held in that warehouse for weeks. One woman in a hive of men. Do you know what happens in those situations?" There is fire in her eyes and vengeance in her heart._

_There is fear in his eyes and for the first time, she doesn't enjoy a victim's fear. He lies paralyzed with it, but manages a nod where his vocal cords failed him._

_"Good. Because I might have red all over my hands, but so does every fucking person on the earth."_

_And then the Black Widow pulls the trigger._

And Clint Barton can only stare.


	18. The Hospital Fire: Part 1 of 3

**Subject Age: 19 years**

_A few hours outside KwaDukuza, iLembe district, South Africa_

_Officially: Private Estate of Jethro Lewis_

_Unofficially_ _: Home of Anton Kuzma_

_2100 hours_

He tries to roll her over and thrust down into her, but she never lets anyone on top. She has a little trouble getting back up, because good Lord, the man is a giant, but she manages it with a little bit of manipulation with her talented fingers and a quick flutter of kisses across his neck.

Once she is back where she needs to be, she swivels her hips and fakes a gasp. "You know I like being on top, baby," she whispers, running her hands along his well-muscled chest, being sure to say her words smothered in a South African accent. She can speak Afrikaans, but it turned out to be unnecessary. He is hidden by the guise of an American, so English is his preferred language.

Anton Kuzma, a Ukranian weapons manufacturer under the false name Jethro Lewis, flashes her a daring smile and moves his large hands to her hips and helps her move. "I had to try—" his words dissolve into a groan and his smile melts into something she is all too familiar with. He is nearing his precipice. The point that he is always just shy of despondency, so caught up he is in his pleasure that he can barely acknowledge the world around him. Some marks aren't so easy.

With his eyes closed, her hands drift around his neck, fingering the chain on which the small, stylized key is hung. It unlocks Kuzma's file room, a literal bunker that is secured with the best tech that Kuzma makes for himself, and only himself. She finds it a little funny that the most brilliant mechanical engineer, that particular decoration not acknowledging that American named Stark, would use an antiquated little key to guard his most valuable secrets. It never leaves his person. She supposes she can understand that. After all, there's only so much automated equipment can do when a brilliant hacker plants a virus in it. A prideful smile.

Her computer skills would be of no use against him in a fight. Anton Kuzma is ex-military and is on file as being an excellent marksman and an expert of hand-to-hand combat. Much like herself, she supposes, if she wants to look for similarities. He is but one man, so she has every confidence that she can defeat him if it ends up coming down to it. She still doesn't see why the mission is so damned complex.

The parameters call for her to pose as a maid from Cape Town because he doesn't trust Russians, seduce him ( _which was painfully easy_ ), get the key ( _which will be like taking candy from a baby_ ), kill him ( _which will be agonizingly simple_ ), and steal the files of only the developmental missiles ( _absolute child's play_ ).

It all seems a little hokey to her, too much work in what could be accomplished by a simple in-and-out hit. It's not her place to question, but she is just so sick of having sex.

It's a problem she's never been able to figure out, but she has a really hard time getting aroused. Through iron focus and sheer force of will, she can usually produce some natural lubrication, but it is a skill she has never been able to master. She can sometimes get there about halfway through the painful ( _for her, anyway_ ) coupling, but by then there's usually so much chafing and pain it doesn't matter much anyway. It's better if the marks so happen to have a bottle of lubricant lying around, but most don't, so she just has to ignore complications, ignore the pain and do some smooth talking to assure them it's just a medical condition that she can't get wet for them. No, it's not contagious, it's genetic. Just keep going, she wants this more than they do.

And then it starts, and all she's thinking about is about when it's going to be over. And answers. The answers that would be gleaned through this interrogation that she hates. At least this mark has lube. She has been spared some discomfort.

The former military she is currently screwing is an excellent fighter, so she supposes, if she was looking for reasons, that the seduction might have been necessary. Still, a distance sniping would have worked out just fine.

But she's not supposed to be looking for reasons, so she grasps the key and yanks, breaking the chain and tossing it on the bedside table. He starts looking like he is drawing back from his orgasm, so she makes her thrusts more aggressive, leans forward and attacks his lips, hands wandering unashamedly, and soon he is back under the haze of pleasure.

The way she is supposed to shoot him is incredibly specific. The mission parameters went a little overboard stressing how important it is that he must be shot directly behind his ear, and she draws her small .22 from its resting place beneath the mussed pillows. Swivels her hips a little to keep him unaware, and places the barrel against the skin right beneath his ear, angled slightly upwards towards his brain.

The Black Widow squeezes the trigger.

The shot is slightly muffled, and the bullet doesn't come out the other side. He is still, and his face is forever frozen with his mouth ajar and eyes half-shut.

The Black Widow, fresh off a kill, crawls off the corpse and throws the sheet over his nude body, grabs the key, and replaces her maid's uniform. She can't wait to be out of it, and she can't wait to cut her hair. She hates having it long. Gets in the way in fights far more than when it's short. It typically changes with each mission, and for this mission it was grown out down to her shoulder blades and dyed black according to Kuzma's preferences of women.

The rest of her time in the house is more of what she's used to doing. She navigates the large house like it is her own, occasionally sidestepping a body. Before she took 'Jethro' to his doom, she made sure each staff member was dead. Three security guards and one other maid ( _her name was Tanya Winter and Black Widow has no idea why she remembers that_ ).

Her knee twinges and tightens suddenly and she halts, sucking in a sharp breath at the unexpected sensation. The Black Widow leans on a wall and moves the stiff joint a few times in experimentation. This is her first undercover 'long con' since São Paulo, and she hasn't felt her knee react this way in a while. The tension dissipates enough that she can continue her trek to the room.

She unlocks the door to his heavily secured file room, the key fitting like a glove. Takes the files only for the TYR-12 through the TYR-54 missiles and slips back out, casually stepping over one of the security personnel.

She steps outside into the cool air of a South African summer night, and leaves the estate as casually and confidently as she had entered it.

* * *

She hasn't set up many safehouses in South Africa, so she has to drive a few hours from outside of KwaDukuza to Cape Town, where a shabby apartment stockpiled with weapons, food, medical supplies, and the transmission device that would get her home, awaits her arrival.

She picks the lock because she doesn't trust having a hideaway key, and enters the room. The front room looks like your average apartment, with a couch, a coffee table, several decorative paintings. But as she shuts the door, each becomes a weaponry cache. There are throwing knives taped beneath the table. The paintings hide holes in the walls where guns and ammunition are stored. Beneath the couch pillows are hidden heavy artillery, two rocket launchers and a mobile gatling gun.

She goes for the paintings first and locates her favorite handguns. She feels secure with their presence and places them on the coffee table. As she walks, the Black Widow shucks her disguise, and picks her suit up off the couch, where it was draped casually over the back rest. The Black Widow looks the part as she finally slides back into the smooth catsuit that is like a second skin. She reholsters her weapons on her hips, and places a couple small caliber guns in the thigh holsters. After sealing a few knives into the subtle pockets hidden across her uniform, she finally feels comfortable. It was hard enough sneaking the .22 into the paranoid Anton Kuzma's home, let alone any other weapons.

The firepower around her brings her peace.

The assassin goes to the kitchen, where she pops open a can of kidney beans and begins eating them straight from the can, without silverware or heating it up. As she tilts the can back like it is a beverage and not a can of pre-cooked legumes that have probably been on this shelf since the turn of the millennium, she is tempted by the presence of the knives and kitchen shears. She wants to chop her hair off  _so badly_ , but she knows better than to do that without permission. ( _Despite the fact that she is no longer under their thumb in the Red Room, they are not above punishing her for her actions_.)

After steeling herself against the temptation, she brushes the annoyingly long strands out of her face and heads toward the back room. She needs to call for extraction.

She opens the door and is greeted by a dark room, illuminated when she pulls the cord to turn on the singular bulb in the middle of the room. The glow is yellowed by time, and she leaves tracks in the dust coating the oak floorboards, the crumbling yellow plaster of the walls and ceiling look like they could possibly qualify as structurally unsound. In the middle of the small room is a table, and upon that table is a typewriter.

She does not lack intelligence, not in the least, but she has no idea how they made the typewriters do this. There is one in every safehouse she has across the globe. They're all like two way radios, connected to the original typewriter at headquarters. Whatever she writes on this typewriter will be typed on the one at HQ, and vice versa.

She figures her superiors must have a flair for the dramatic. Why else would they use the haunted typewriter method and not communicators? She can almost laugh at their inefficiency, but they are her superiors. It's not her place to question their methods.

**[Begin Transmission]**

**Black Widow reporting. Mission successful. Extraction requested.**

She waits half a minute for the response, and the sound of the keybuttons and keylevers moving on their own never fails to give her the chills. The keys don't move as the keylevers sweep across the paper, typing the message.

**Understood. We will send a jet to the following coordinates in two hours.**

She watches as the numbers are struck out, and memorizes them. She would need a GPS to be exact, but she knows enough to rough out an approximate location, and it looks like the extraction point will be just a few miles north of Cape Town.

She stands and heads for the door, thinking that their message is complete, but there's the sound of the typewriter again.

She turns back but does not sit, choosing to read the new message standing. The words jostle her.

**Be advised, we have reports of another assassin in the area.**

**Who?** She types. She had been so focused on her mission it hadn't occurred to her there may be other interested parties in town. Intel is supposed to warn her about these things, and she is mad at them for leaving her bereft of important information. Again. Why do they seem so intent on leaving out crucial details? ( _Do not criticize the actions of your superiors. They know far more than you, and you are merely their tool._ )

**Our sources in the area have found several bodies killed with arrows.**

They didn't even need to specify any further than that. There is only one assassin with a fondness for using the ancient weapon. The master archer.

Hawkeye.

The Black Widow is generally closed off from the regular world. The only people who deal directly with the world of other covert assassins and spies are her handlers. Of course, it would be naïve to assume that she had never crossed paths with others in her line of work. She never gave them much time of day, as most of the conversations were about her working for someone other than Russia. ( _We must never disappoint our country_.) Despite her reclusiveness, her superiors had seen it fit to inform her of the other players in the deadly game they play. Hawkeye is their primary concern, which is saying something in a world as dirty as theirs. The file they have on him is somewhat sparse, but they have enough evidence of his prowess to come to one conclusion: he is dangerous.

The stories she has heard about him are nothing short of impressive. How he can put an arrow through a pupil from hundreds of yards out. How Hawkeye and a sniper rifle are a dangerous combination and can hit any target with deadly accuracy from  _miles_  away. There is one report that claims he once shot an arrow equipped with a flash drive  _into a fucking USB port_ , and drained all the data from a computer. She doesn't believe that last one's actually possible.

She has never met this man, 'the man who never missed' as those in their world call him. She has heard stories is all. Seen some of his work. All she knows for certain is that he is terrifyingly accurate with his bow. An insane weapon choice if you ask the Black Widow, but it works for him.

As far as she knows, he works for the Americans, and has an impressive body count.

They won't confirm her vague suspicions, but she thinks her superiors have pined after his capabilities for years.

**We don't know if the Americans are just grandstanding or if they have legitimate cause for being in South Africa. What we do know is that those dead had links to Jethro Lewis, so they may be after your mark.**

She will need to be on her guard if Hawkeye knows she is here. At least the job is done. She'll go home and that will be that.

**The mark has been taken care of.**

**Be at the site on time.**

**[End Transmission]**

She straightens and exits the small room, and begins to prepare for her journey. Securing weapons, making sure there are no perishables in the kitchen. That sort of thing.

She hates herself for it, but she keeps glancing at the two windows of the safehouse. Keeps thinking about how many buildings he could easily set up a nest on, and could be just watching her right now. Could be nocking an arrow right now to put it through her heart.

She shuts the curtains.

* * *

General Rebrenovich's office never changes with its overt luxury and expensive feel that makes a normal man wince at how much he must have spent on such lavishness.

She almost never goes to base, let alone his office. Her nameless handlers are the ones who make contact. The last time she was at the base was last year after the hellish São Paulo mission. By the time she arrived at the medical ward, she was nearly catatonic with blood loss and exhaustion.

She's rarely here anymore, and she prefers the freedom of the outside world to the confining walls of her bleak official quarters. She's not sure why she's here at all. Usually, after a mission, she just goes straight to the next target. ( _The freedom is nice. The illusion of it, anyway._ )

In fact, she's only been to the General's office once...

The Black Widow isn't sure what to expect now.

One of her handlers has tried to keep a hand on her shoulder or elbow, but she continually shakes him off. He continues to do so, and attempts to lead her into the General's office by her elbow, and she restrains herself from breaking his jaw and settles for grasping his wrist and shoving him into a wall. She doesn't try to break anything, But her shove is maybe a tad more forceful than necessary. Her patience has never been that of a saint.

The handler recovers and grasps the back of her neck, where the sensitive nerves halt her under the pressure of his fingertips. "You will be paying for that at a later date," he informs her, as casual as if he were telling her about the weather.

She just raises an eyebrow as he releases her and lets her walk on her own.  _He owes me for his intact jawbone._

The general is waiting, his permanently stony expression even more so. She places herself in front of him, in her military stance, feet apart and hands clasped behind her back. Her chin held high, she follows him with her eyes. Tries to keep herself from hyperventilating. All she can think about is the events that followed her last meeting with him. The images keep pushing through her mind, no matter how much she tries to bury them.

"Widow, please give me a summation of your last mission." All business. She's tired of this. _Just read the freaking report!_  she wants to shout. She wants to get out of the suffocating walls of the facility, of the suffocating memories within. She wants to get away from it all.

She doesn't let her confusion or frustration or anything else show, nor does she try to suggest that he just read her report. "I arrived in Cape Town on January 12 at 0832 hours. I made contact with the target at roughly 1810 hours. I was hired and I arrived the next day at the estate at 0700 hours-"

"Perhaps you should skip ahead to the part where you did not kill Anton Kuzma," Rebrenovich interrupts snidely.

Okay, her confusion just quadrupled. "Sir?"

"You've made a mistake." His words are said carefully, like he picked them especially for her, as his stony face became twisted in a perverse look of satisfaction, which she does not understand. She tries to not remember when he last looked like that. ( _You will have to kill them, Widow. We have chosen you for this task. It is a great honor to be chosen._ )

The Black Widow tries not to scoff, and only halfway succeeds. "With all due respect, sir," she says through gritted teeth, "I don't believe that's possible." She's the  _Black Widow_. She doesn't just make mistakes.

His words are so condescending, and it grates on her. "Really? Because our sources have confirmed Anton Kuzma was checked into a hospital under the name Jethro Lewis in KwaDukuza a few hours after you left. Now, would you like to explain?"

She swallows thickly. Her heart rate picks up minutely. "I followed the mission parameters to the letter. I shot him exactly where-"

"Yet  _somehow_  you did not kill him!" Rebrenovich yells. He is in her face now. He is taller, and it somewhat nullifies her intimidation factor. "Please explain to me how that is possible!" The tension escalates quickly in the small space. The tempest in her mind quiets in the face of her superior's words and her supposed mistake.

She doesn't let herself look wounded by his disappointment and anger. "It is possible to survive a shot to the brain and spinal cord. Even if the heart stops it is possible his brain was not yet dead, and he could have been revived... but it was highly unlikely anyone would discover him until the next day, and by that time it wouldn't matter."

His eyes were like gaping black holes. "Did you know that Mr. Kuzma was undergoing renal failure and had an in-home nurse administer dialysis treatments every week?"

Shit. She wetted her lips and tried to reason, "No, sir. Intel did not inform me-"

"Stop blaming your short-comings on Intel!" Rebrenovich scolds loudly, so close to the Black Widow that she can feel his breath on her face.

"It's not blaming if it's true!" Widow finally explodes, the tension built finally sparking. "If I don't know who the hell is coming and going before I get there and I am allowed no reconnaissance time, how the fuck can you expect me to know these things?" They are being so unfair! She does so much better in her own, when they just give her a target. She can stay under the radar and take out more targets if they would just  _leave her alone._

One moment she is staring down Rebrenovich's increasingly red face, and the next she is facedown on the red carpet, her cheek stinging faintly.

( _Your overconfidence is unbecoming of you_.)

"We have always known you were insubordinate, Black Widow, but we did not know how insubordinate. You disobeyed direct orders, and in doing so, have failed this organization and this country."

The slap seemed to bring her back to her reality.

Black Widow has never felt like more a a failure, but the anger still burns in her gut like a cauldron of toxic waste. She has thrown everything in her life away for them! Everything! And they're calling her a failure? She wants to lash out as she picks herself up off the carpet, but her handler must sense her intentions as she begins to stand, and grasps her arms behind her back. She struggles for only a moment before realizing its futile. Her handlers are very strong, and after all, she shouldn't even be contemplating striking out. ( _It is a great honor to be chosen_.)

( _Failure is synonymous with torture. Failure is not an option. Insubordination is not an option_.)

The General's voice is hissing and cruel. "You are pathetic. You are nothing without us. What would you do without us? I'll tell you: you would be set adrift in a world you do not know and cannot hope to function in." He leans close to her, "You may have earned your place, but you are nothing. A tool for the republic and you would do well to remember that." He steps back, leaving Black Widow shaking with guilt and humiliation and horrendous fear because she knows what happens next.

What their punishment will be.

She swallows all her emotion, these feelings she shouldn't be having. How can she be so ungrateful? They've given her everything,  _but they've taken everything too_ her brain reminds with an image of blue eyes dying. It doesn't matter, she decides firmly. She is a tool of the republic. A harbinger of death and justice and peace.

"If he survived the shot he is probably brain-damaged, and possibly paralyzed as well. The threat is neutralized-" she tries to suggest, her voice addled with self-loathing and desperate supplication.

The General laughs a cold laugh. "The mission called for Anton Kuzma to be dead. Is brain damaged and paralyzed dead, child?"

The tears sting at the  _child_ , but she won't let them fall. "No, sir." Her voice is broken as her head falls and her face looks upon the floor.

Her handler tightens his grip on her elbows. The General addresses him coolly, "Take her to the basement. Show her what such flagrant insubordination will earn her. Then take her back to her quarters. I think some reeducation might be in order." His words speak of dark things, of a horrible nightmare on the grandest scale. She can't let them keep her here. She can't go back to the Red Room.

Her head snaps up at his words, her tone pleading now. "Please, sir!" Black Widow begs, as her handler begins to pull her towards the door. "I can make up for it. Please, let me fix it!" The handler, realizing that she wouldn't cooperate, begins to drag the unwilling assassin out of the office. She digs her heels in and tries to stop, wants to convince them that she knows  _exactly_  how worthless she is,  _exactly_  how she is only a tool for her country,  _exactly_  how she is nothing without them.

That she was foolish and stupid to even think that she could exist without them.

"Please!" She tries, one last time, "I'll do whatever you want!  _I can fix it!_ "

She fears her plea has fallen upon deaf ears, until... "Stop," General Rebrenovich commands. "Please continue, Black Widow."

The handler quits dragging her, but doesn't let go of her arms. Like she is a criminal begging for a second chance. "I can go back in," her voice colored with pure relief that she has a chances to argue for herself. Rebrenovich, though, does not look impressed by her relief, her weakness.

She steels herself once more, because she is nothing if not resilient. They want the Black Widow. They will get her. "Send me back and I'll make sure there is nothing left of Anton Kuzma to save." Her voice is now pure venom and resolve. The light has no place here.

The General's look is pleased.

The Black Widow tries to not dread what that means.


	19. The Hospital Fire: Part 2 of 3

**A Few Days Earlier**

In Clint's experience, South Africa always leads to shitty things.

His steps are but a whisper across the ground as he approaches a tree he thinks will give him a good vantage point into the mark's bedroom. "I don't like this," he states without fear of being heard. He's well hidden in the trees and shadows at the fringe of the property, and he knows from his cursory scans of the property manifest that there are no cameras or sensors out this far.

The communicator crackles a little before Hawkeye hears, "What, going into a hit without running recon?" Phil Coulson's voice never fails to sound absolutely calm and dry. It's honestly his superpower.

And it is true. Before making the journey to Cape Town, he had been on a mission in Addis Ababa when he received an urgent message from Phil, telling him he had been reassigned to take a series of hits in South Africa. The hit would be on a highly dangerous individual, Anton Kuzma, along with four close associates who knew of his unsavory activities after he left Russia in selling his missile designs to powerful gang leaders and criminal syndicates the world over. Yeah, not a good dude. As far as Hawkeye knows, the Russians want him dead, too.

It was apparently too advanced for the agent they had originally assigned. It's an understatement to say Hawkeye _had been pissed at Phil. His handler knows exactly how much he hates South Africa, and how much South Africa hates him. You know if I start shooting arrows around, Solomon will be all over me in a matter of days,_ he'd said, and had suggested using a sniper rifle instead. Phil had assured him SHIELD wanted him to use the arrows. When Hawkeye had asked why the hell they would want that, Phil only shrugged and said, _Above my pay-grade. You'd be better off asking Fury._

He might be okay with this entire assignment if it didn't put a giant target on his back.

He'd dealt with the associates easily enough, as quickly as the mission would allow. The parameters were more specific than he was used to, and Phil blames it on the involvement of the World Security Council. Usually, they stay generally out of the nitty-gritty of the assassination business. Don't want their idealistic hands getting too dirty, Hawkeye always thinks. It's too far to say that he's scared, but he still keeps one eye open when he sleeps, just waiting for Solomon's men to come busting down his door. He holds his bow and quiver in his hand while he slumbers, and two handguns under his pillow.

He reaches the base of the tree, it's thick and tall with rough, gray bark. Clint's no botanist, but it doesn't look like any native South African tree species he's ever seen. Looks a lot more European, and he figures the mark must have imported them. Misses the motherland and all that. Species and genus don't matter much as he glances around for a handhold to hoist himself upon. "Let me shoot a metaphor your way, Phil."

"Shoot away."

When he finds no handholds, the trunk is perfectly smooth and far too wide for him to shimmy his way up, he growls a little. Couldn't just get this hit over with and get the fuck out of South Africa. His eyes look up the trunk to where the thick lower branches fan out widely, about twenty feet up the trunk. He scans quickly for a tree he could climb up the twenty feet or so and then just swing himself onto the primary tree where he would set up the nest. "Let's say someone gouged out my eyes-"

"Great start," Phil comments idly.

The new tree is thinner, younger than the intended one. It's still the same species, but this one is thin enough that he can fit his arms around and just inchworm his way up. "-and a different someone now says, 'Hey Hawkeye, we are standing at this giant mouth of a volcano with a very rickety wooden bridge strung across it-"

"Have you been pondering this one for a while?"

Once he has reached the heigh where the branches begin, his callous-roughened hands release the trunk with his legs crossed and tight to hold him aloft. Those hands curl around the nearest branch, and when he gets a good enough grip, releases his legs. He easily pulls himself up until his elbows are locked, and he can lift his legs onto the branch. He begins to climb. Hawkeye looks akin to a jungle ape the way he scales the branches, completely at home in the tree. Well, he has been climbing trees for ages.

It doesn't take the master archer long to get to a good enough height. His fingers close around a branch above him, and like a gymnast ( _his days in the circus gave him a myriad of skills_ ), he creates momentum as he swings his legs back and forth. Just as smoothly, he releases the branch, and for the barest of seconds, he controls his almost-flight so that he lands easily on a thick branch that easily supports his weight with no difficulty. "Lord, man, just listen." Despite being on the tree of his choice, he is nowhere near where he wants to be, so he begins to climb higher. "So this person then says, 'there are soft spots all over the bridge, and one wrong step will plunge you into a bunch of molten rock. I looked at it from here, and you look pretty good, except for a couple holes along the middle. Just avoid those and you'll be fine.' And then, sure enough, I trust my peer and set out across said bridge, avoiding the spots he asked me to. And then... Boom! I fall through the bridge because he didn't see the rope was frayed in the middle. And now I'm dead."

"Seems like you've really thought this over."

"And yet you sound not very sympathetic to my plight."

"Are you in position?"

"Almost. Took me a while to find a good enough spot for a nest since, you know. I didn't run recon."

"Let me know when you're in position."

Normally, Hawkeye wouldn't even have Phil in his ear constantly. SHIELD had eventually learned their best sniper worked best with minimal interference. Just give him the basic parameters, and he would take care of the rest. But, since the intel was gathered by another agent and then the hit transferred to him, Phil is the middleman who will make sure Clint doesn't get killed.

Clint finally settles himself into position on a good enough branch (it wobbles a little when he comes down hard on it, but there's no danger of it breaking) near the midsection of the tree. He stands up, and withdraws a scope from his pocket. He'd admit they're useful sometimes, though he prefers to shoot his bow without them. Even his 20/8 vision has its limits. He doesn't attach the scope to his bow, still collapsed, and just looks through it into Anton Kuzma's bedroom.

He does not see what he had expected to see.

"Well, shit."

"What is it?"

The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, as if a sudden chill had come over him. "Kuzma is already dead," Clint growls, putting his scope back in his pocket and releasing his bow from it's collapsed form. His fingertips begin to tingle with adrenaline, and his gut stirs with something that is no longer unease. He lost that a long time ago. His eyes and ears are keyed to each and every small sound that stirs in the night. The Hawk is in his hunting zone. "Looks like a shot to the head." He leaves his bow low, but scans the visible estate for signs of another. "Damn it, who else was after him?" He'd had no idea that someone else was coming for Kuzma. Of course, a lot of powerful people want Anton Kuzma six feet under, but intel is supposed to inform him if he would come into direct contact with another... separate interest. A kind way of saying _another assassin_. And he is painfully aware that whoever had gotten to Kuzma before him might still be on the premises and be aware of his position. Clint hates being caught off guard, and it seems to happen a lot in his line of work. He nocks an arrow, his motions silent, but doesn't draw it back. Under his breath, he mutters, "This is the kind of shit that happens when I don't run my own recon."

"Everyone, Clint," Coulson responds. "It's only a matter of who knows where he is."

Hawkeye is running through the assassins he knows of that could have pulled off a hit like this one. Kuzma has, _had_ , infamously tight security, and was incredibly paranoid to boot. This is a hit that not many could have pulled off.

The name Black Widow springs to his mind first.

"I thought we were the only ones who knew he was here."

"Evidently not."

"Thank you for the dry humor, Phil," Barton deadpans quietly. Never let it be said that Clint Barton doesn't know how to relive the tension.

"That's what I'm here for."

"So what's the plan now?" Hawkeye asks, before his eyes snap sharply to movement in the room. "Wait. Someone's coming in... It's the nurse coming to do the dialysis." He knows Kuzma has staff and wonders how the hell the nurse missed the bodies, because the Widow doesn't leave any survivors.

She is young, pretty and blonde, and he pulls out his scope again to read her lips. His Afrikaans is a bit rusty, but he can understand the gist. _Mr. Lewis? It's time for your- Oh my god. Mr. Lewis?_ She goes up to his body, and feels for a pulse. _Someone call an ambulance!_ Her hands go to cover the wound, _Mr. Lewis, you're going to be okay! Someone!_

"The fucker's not dead," Clint says, almost laughs. This is definitely not the Black Widow. The woman never _didn't_ kill. The fact makes a bit of his tension release, and he becomes a bit less wary of his surroundings. "Should I take him? 'Course it'd be messy business with the nurse there and all."

"Negative. Do not take the shot," replies Phil after a lengthy silence.

"Why not?"

"Fury's concerned about the party who got to him before we did."

Fair point. Hawkeye is pretty concerned too. "I'll follow him to the hospital. Hopefully whoever tried to kill him will keep on following him until the job is done." He replaces the arrow in the quiver, but doesn't collapse his bow.

"No, regroup at the safehouse. We'll do some sniffing around to see if we can find who else knew about the estate."

Hawkeye doesn't bother with climbing down the slow way. A twenty foot drop is easy. With a sharp tuck and roll he is on his feet again, none the worse for wear. "When should I go back? You know I will even if I don't have orders."

"Thank you for reminding me how insubordinate you are."

"Aw, but Phil, you wouldn't love me if I wasn't."

"Good god, Barton, can we have some focus?"

"I can multitask."

"As I was saying, regroup at the safehouse. We're tracking him electronically. We'll let you know what hospital he's going to in a few hours with your new orders."

* * *

 

**Present**

It isn't easy getting the large canisters of hydrogen onto the roof, but she manages it. Posing as a repairman by wearing an unflattering coverall with the name Dave printed over her heart, dirtying up her face, fake facial hair, and tucking her hair into an old baseball cap, she manages to cart all the parts she needs onto the roof over the course of a few days.

Before that, she obtains the hospital blue prints by posing as a concerned family member of 'Jethro Lewis'. She knows exactly how to play the sympathies of the nurses and doctors, with a sad story of how she is his sister and their parents died a long time ago, and it has just been him and her against the world ever since. _We were Jackie and Jethro. Inseparable._ She cries a few insincere tears, but the staff eat it up with sickeningly sweet sympathy, and eventually she's able to sneak into the hospital's records rooms without a hitch.

With the blueprints in her possession, he begins to plan exactly how she would show her country her dedication. She doesn't like overt displays, but that is exactly what she will need.

In light of her recent failure, they'd given her a communicator to use. It felt bulky and stuck out of her ear by a half an inch, but worse still is the voice of Rebrenovich in her ear, asking her for reports, asking her for plans and her locations and ETAs and things she doesn't want to say. She decides then that she will never disappoint them again, because if there is one thing she hates, it is having him in her ear.

Her first decision is to bomb the hospital.

Her next is to ignite the air with hydrogen gas.

An explosion, and a fire. There will be a lot of destruction and a lot of casualties. Exactly what her country needs. Exactly what she needs to do to show them her loyalty.

Rebrenovich approves. She doesn't know how to feel about that. Compelled to be pleased, like this is what she was made for, what she wants. It feels hollow, like it was someone else's. Stuck in her mind like it's lost.

It makes her head ache dully, so she ignores any sentiment over Rebrenovich to fade from her mind. It helps.

She does the math, works over the equations of saturation levels and takes into account air leaks, ventilation, and so on. The saturation of hydrogen gas in the air would have to be about 10 or 11 percent for a significant burn. Too little, and there would be no ignition; too much, and there wouldn't be enough oxygen to sustain the blaze.

Now, the Black Widow rigs large canisters of hydrogen gas to the ventilation system on the roof of the hospital in which a brain damaged Anton Kuzma lays in a deep coma.

The rooftop unit is boxlike in its design, with some pretty heavy duty air filtration mesh within. The mesh won't filter out the hydrogen gas she is putting in. The extenuating ductwork across the roof of the hospital will assure that the entire place will get saturated with hydrogen. She will have to act quickly once she reaches the optimal percentage.

In her workman coverall, she opens up the main unit via maintenance access panel. The unit has three intake tubes, although most of the hospital's air is recycled through the filtration system. She has six canisters, easier to disguise than three massive ones, and works on hooking up the canisters to each intake tube. They would be hidden inside the unit's walls, so if any other employees were to come onto the roof, the canisters would not be visible.

Rubber, airtight tubing soon connects two canisters to each intake valve.

Black Widow checks the pressure gauges on each canister, and watches as the levels on hydrogen within them begin to fall. Slowly, leaving enough time for her to rig the C4 in the vents above Kuzma's room, and in each wing of the hospital, and connect the remote detonation devices in the form of disposable cell phones.

She knows exactly what they want ( _what she wants to want but can't_ ). An overt display of loyalty. Show them she is worth something. That she is valuable. She will give it to them.

Yes, this will be a fire with many casualties. Exactly what they want.

She takes extra care placing the packs of C4, sliding along the rectangular ventilation shaft that just barely accommodates her already slender shoulders. She couldn't get several fully wired, remote-detonated bombs into the vents, so she'd loaded all the components into a backpack that she pushed in front of her as she navigated the weave of the system.

She wore a simple watch on her wrist. She had three hours, twenty nine minutes, and twenty eight seconds before she achieved optimum saturation. She would have a window of three minutes to get out of the blast radius and detonate the bomb.

Each bomb is fairly simple to assemble and place, so she's ahead of schedule when she places the last one just over the pediatric wing. She finishes with that wing because she can drop from the vent into a supply closet that sees no visitors until the night shift.

She does so, and quickly locates the clothing she placed there. She sheds her workman's disguise, letting her hair free from the cap, tearing away the false facial hair, and slides back into Jackie Lewis's skin. She runs a hand over her face, ensuring all traces of her male face are gone. She checks her watch. Twenty one minutes until optimum saturation. Twenty four until detonation becomes impossible.

"Widow, report."

She doesn't let herself grind her teeth as she steps out into a deserted hallway and begins walking in the direction of the mark's room. "Out of ventilation." A small triad of nurses enter the corridor, and she changes herself to fit Jackie, makes her walk more flouncy, makes her face more concerned, "Yes, Mom, I'm going to see him now." She gives the nurses a polite smile and a finger wave as she passes them.

He doesn't respond, and she hopes it stays that way for a while.

In order to reach Kuzma's room to ensure that they haven't taken him anywhere, she walks through the main hall of the pediatric facility.

Everything is different in this part of the hospital. The walls are painted in bright, happy primary colors, and the air is filled with tension. Not the average hospital tension, but the tension that arises from knowledge of illness and death with attempted coverup by parents and doctors with stuffed animal giraffes as stethoscopes.

There are quite a few people buzzing around- parents, some who look hopeful, others who look terrified. Doctors and nurses who recognize her as Jackie and smile at her. She makes the effort to put on the strong smile, like she is actually afraid for her mark.

She is about to leave the wing when a little boy, no more than six, bumps into her. His face is positively cherubic. Not in the perfect features or round face, his face is actually quite gaunt and narrow, but that he is aglow with such childlike excitement and happiness, the Black Widow is caught off guard by its intensity and innocence ( _She doesn't remember ever feeling like that_ ). He smiles up at her, and she returns it, explaining to herself that she needs to keep up the show for the nurses who know Jackie. "Sorry, miss."

"That's all right," she says, still smiling.

Regardless of the fact that he does not know her, he keeps smiling up and grabs her hand in his in a moment of sheer glee. Again, she is shocked, and this time she struggles to keep her mask in place. "Did you know I get to go home today?" he asks her, his cheeks all flushed in excitement.

Normally, she hates being touched by anyone, but for some reason, she doesn't feel disquieted by his small fingers around hers. Despite not knowing what he's talking about, she exclaims, "Really?" Why she is trying to appease the child, she still does not know. She should just leave. She has twenty one minutes until optimum saturation, and she needs to spend those minutes making sure Kuzma does not leave his room until she can trigger the bombs she placed.

But she stays.

She doesn't understand the warmth when he looks like she has absolutely made his day by saying that. "Yeah! I don't hurt at all anymore, and I haven't seen my room in four months!"

"That is a long time to not be home!" The Black Widow tells the child seriously, like he has committed such an act of unbelievable bravery by holding out as long as he has. He's been here four months, the gaunt face, the pain he mentioned... probably cancer.

"I know! Mom says I might be able to go back to school soon, too!" He survived cancer and wants to go back to school. There is a tightening in her throat and a pain in her head and eyes that she knows shouldn't be there.

Despite the strange sensations, she manages to say brightly, "That is pretty cool." Twenty minutes. "Say, where is your mom? I bet she's looking for you."

The boy looks sheepish now, shy as he asks, "Can you help me find her?"

There's no hesitation ( _and there should be_ ) as she says, "Sure."

They don't look for very long when she hears, "Sipho! There you are!" The assassin turns towards the sound. Judging by the happy look on the boy's face, the woman is his mother. The mother looks up at the Black Widow, her son still clutching her hand. There's a look of guarded thanks in her face that every parent has on their face whenever they see their child with someone they do not know.

Sipho unintentionally clears the air. "Mama, this nice lady was helping me find you!" he says in the way that he seems to say everything, like there's a story in the sentence that is worth about three hours of time.

Now a grateful smile crosses her face. It's wide and genuine. "Thank you for bringing him back here. I'm sorry if he held you up."

"No trouble at all," she answers, trying to remember how long she has. It's got to be nineteen minutes by now. She's very aware of the fact that Sipho hasn't let go of her hand. And that he called her a nice lady.

"Sipho, why don't we finish up saying goodbye to all your hospital friends?" his mother suggests. "I'm sure the nice lady has places to be."

Sipho nods, taking her request very seriously. Once he lets go of her hand, though, he runs over to a nearby nurse and throws his arms around her waist. She looks very much used to his antics by now.

Looking away from the boy, her eyes land on the mother. Something in her expression prompts her to say something, even though she knows she cannot. The words come out of her mouth before she can even really try to stop them. "Congratulations. I heard you're going home today."

"Oh, he told you that?"

"Yes. He sounded very excited."

The mother sighs. "It's been quite the journey."

"I can imagine." Her mind is burning with curiosity when she asks, "When do you check out?" _In the next nineteen minutes. Please say in a few minutes._

She smiles, "In just a few hours." She sounds relieved, like a long ordeal is about to end.

The Black Widow's stomach drops. She hopes she doesn't sound off when she says, "Congratulations again. I'd best be moving along."

"Of course. Thank you, again, for bringing him back."

"You're welcome," she manages. He'd be better off if she took him somewhere... far, far away. Why does that even seem like an option? Because it isn't.

She turns, and she tries not to seem like she is rushing out of the pediatrics wing. Tries to slow her mind down as she heads on the route to Kuzma's room. Tries to put Sipho and his mother and their smiles and the C4 in the vents above them and the hydrogen they are breathing in and will kill them out of her mind.

"Widow, report. What the hell was that?"

And here she is thinking she lost him. "Got held up. On my way to the room now."

There was a significant silence before she hears his reply. "Be sure it doesn't happen again."

She heeds his instructions, but doesn't have to avoid any further hindrances. She eventually reaches Kuzma's room, and finds him, predictably, in the same place.

"Widow, report."

She resists the urge to scream and punch a wall, answers calmly, "He's here. Seventeen minutes until optimum saturation."

"Waste time. Be the dutiful sister. Chat with nurses. Then get out."

She doesn't snap over the line that that had been her plan in the first place. She only hopes he didn't feel brilliant coming up with it. "Yes, sir."

So she does. She chats with nurses, she holds Kuzma's still hand.

She has to create distance. She failed at it once already. Distance. Tries to not absorb the words she is hearing from the nurses that have gotten to know Jackie. Because she absorbed what Sipho told her. That he fought a disease for a long time and is only happy to be leaving and going to school and she's going to be responsible for his death. She only hears.

One of the nurses is pregnant. She and her husband have been trying for months.

The Widow can no longer focus on the still hand of the man she failed to kill. She stands, makes Jackie smile for Nurse Swaan. It's Jackie who embraces her, Jackie who is giving her warm congratulations to the nurse who thinks her name is Jackie. It's Jackie who compliments, "I'd say you are positively radiant."

It's Jackie who sees the nurse, young, sweet and innocent, looking away shyly and blushing. "Thank you." She looks full of life.

The Black Widow goes back to sitting by Kuzma, who looks as close to dead as a living person can be, checks her watch. Four minutes until optimum saturation. Seven until detonation is impossible.

She knows that it takes her three and a half minutes to exit the hospital. With a final round of goodbyes and she makes Jackie hug Nurse Swaan again.

Trying to convince herself she is completely calm and ready to detonate the bombs, she walks out of the hospital.

Her breathing wobbles as she tries to draw in a calming breath, only succeeding in a few shaky pants. Her palms are sweating, which is beyond strange because the Widow doesn't get nervous, and her fingers twitch against the detonator.

As she walks a safe distance from the hospital, out of the blast radius, it almost is as if she is walking through water. Constantly pulling her back from where she came. It would be so easy. Pull the fire alarm, get as many out as she can. Sipho who wants to go to school again. Nurse Swaan who has been trying for months.

But she didn't and she won't. Can't. The consideration of saving them, of saving anyone, makes her head throb with something that's not quite pain.

She finally reaches the safe distance. The blast radius isn't large. She didn't rig a lot of C4, enough to kill Kuzma, for sure, and then set the hospital ablaze Still, C4 packs a wallop. The concussion will be great. She will probably feel some of it, as she is a safe enough distance where her life would not be in immediate danger, and close enough to make sure her plan works.

To make sure she kills as many as she can.

( _Without battle, there is no victory._ )

( _It is an honor to be chosen._ )

She swallows heavily.

( _We have no use of a child who cannot follow orders._ )

The Widow presses the ignition.

The explosion sounds, ringing and rumbling through the streets of KwaDukuza. The glass shatters, the walls crumble, the roof collapses in flames. The explosion and fire will become legend around the area. _Where were you when the hospital blew up? Did you feel the rumble? Did the windows on your house shatter? Did you see the plumes of flame? Did it sound like the loudest thunderclap you'd ever heard?_ But it isn't the loudest sound she hears.

Seconds after, the screams begin.


	20. The Hospital Fire: Part 3 of 3

She's dressed in plain clothes, tan slacks and a form-fitting button down, and her hair is longer than when he last saw it, and the curls have been straightened and are now cobalt black, but there is absolutely no mistaking who Agent Barton is seeing make her way from the KwaDukuza Hospital.

"Coulson, it's her. It's the Widow." Hawkeye had only just made it to the hospital after heeding Fury's orders to stay put until they could figure out the other players in the game. Barton wasn't a fan of the orders- figured he could do exactly what the stiffs behind the desks and computers were doing if he just kept a close eye on Kuzma. But he tries really hard to not disobey direct orders anymore, so he camped in the safehouse until he was needed.

And now he's cursing all of Fury's ancestors as he tracks the deadliest killer he has ever seen through the throngs of people on the sidewalks.

He doesn't know how she always manages to blend. A killer who is so obviously out of place managing to look seamlessly like she is normal. But when he looks closer, she is too seamless, too smooth and calculated to truly belong.

There's only a beat of silence before Coulson responds urgently, "Pursue, Barton. If you have a shot, take it."

"My pleasure," Barton growls, his feet a quiet series of scrapes across the rooftops of KwaDukuza.

"She is now the priority target." _Get her at all costs._ "Don't worry about publicity. We'll take care of it. Just make sure no bystanders can be injured... Clint," Phil begins and Barton knows he is pretty goddamned serious because he doesn't call him Agent Barton or Hawkeye. Ever the professional, Coulson almost never calls him by his first name. Twice he's done it, actually. Once when he officially graduated from SHIELD training. Then when he woke up from a three-day coma after an explosion in Syria. And now, "don't miss."

Barton allows himself a half-hearted "Ha."

She doesn't walk too far from the hospital. And then she pulls something into her hand, turning back to face the hospital. Waiting for something? No, watching.

It takes Barton all of 9 milliseconds to figure out what she is doing. He's been around the block enough times to take a guess at what her plan is. He's never felt so panicked since long before his SHIELD training.

There's urgency in his hands as he tries to line up a shot, her head and chest and hand holding the device perfectly and completely obscured by passersby. Does he take out the civilians to take out her? "Shit, Coulson I think she's got a detanat-"

Clint's been in explosions before, the worst being the one that resulted in his coma after Syria.

This one's right up there near Syria. He's just glad he had been as far away as he was. He sees the flash, the flames spitting outwards from the windows and cracks in the walls, like hell has risen up from the depths of the Earth. His brain barely has time to register the horrific image of fire and burning people before the blast concussion hits him.

He feels it ripple through him like the bomb in Syria, a tidal wave and a blast of pure sound and energy slamming into him like a wall.

The last sound he hears is shattering glass, and then it's the high-pitched hum that accompanies damaged eardrums greeting him.

He's lifted off the ground, pushed to the other edge of the rooftop by the wall, feels the cut of the cement surface on his arms and shoulders where they take the brunt of the impact when he slams back to the surface. He rolls a few times, and when the momentum finally dies, he allows himself only a few moments to bring himself back into his head.

He feels clear, so there's likely no head trauma, and he quickly climbs to his feet. He feels only minimally dizzy, but he has pushed past far worse. Despite the rather violent reaction to the bomb, his hand is still clutched around his bow. It's pretty durable, but the thing takes a beating on a regular basis, and he notices some of the carbon-alloy is slightly splintered on the bow stave. It will barely affect the bowstring's tension, but it's something he will have to watch carefully for breakage.

Despite his temporary loss of hearing, Barton can still feel the comm in his ear, and hopes it isn't broken. "Primary target blew the hospital. Agent status green. Hearing loss resulted from the blast. Unable to communicate via communicator." He hates using protocol on comms. So boring. And he probably can't even pass for green if his hearing's out. Maybe a soft yellow. Anyway, his hearing is not his utmost strength.

He immediately races to the previous side of the building he'd been on, and his sharp eyes search for the one who belongs but doesn't. He expects to find her calmly walking away from her carnage, self-satisfied and collected. The people on the street are in chaos; a lot of them still on the ground, many not even in the blast's radius but had dropped automatically at the massive explosion. A decent portion are running haphazardly, some calling for family members. Another part is running from the mayhem, and a smaller part running towards it, looking to help.

Those who were in the range of the fire... are on fire. Some are still alive, running, panicking and he's sure if he could hear he would be able to hear screaming. There are children... oh god. He looks away. He will deal with it later. Later. He needs to focus. This will be his best opportunity to kill her. Have her body disappear in the post-disaster cleanup. Her death will be passed of as a casualty of the blast. With the inundation of dead they are about to have, no one will look twice.

His first prediction is wrong. It takes much longer to find her since she is retreating so... strangely. He has never seen her anything but focused and point-oriented, always contentious of her environs. Now, she looks... normal. Like a shell-shocked citizen just trying to get away. Eyes wild. Face straight terrified.

He won't dissect her motives just yet. He can't do that now. This is the most important mark of his life and he won't let her just slip through his fingers like water. It happened in Brazil. He won't let it happen in South Africa.

He runs across the rooftops, bow at the ready, staying out of her line of sight, despite the fact that she doesn't appear to be looking for anyone.

He will wait until she is alone. Then he will take the shot.

This will all be over by tonight.

* * *

 

She stumbles, almost drunkenly, away from the smell of burning flesh and pained screaming. All that she caused. All that she had wanted to cause, wanted to hurt and kill for _them_ so badly it hurt.

For the first time, Black Widow doesn't follow her retreat plan. Doesn't check her back to see if she is being followed. Doesn't cover her tracks or try to blend with the crowd. Her hand that holds the remote detonator feels like it burns her, the way it burned _all those people_.

People scream. People run. She can feel their fear. It doesn't please her the way it should, feels more like muck and bile sliding over her skin. Suffocating and burdening, thick like mud and despair.

She shouldn't feel this way. This remorse. This is what she does. ( _It is an honor to be chosen. Without battle, there is no victory._ ) She does this for the greater good, for justice and peace and the motherland. This is what she was _made_ for. ( _One more message to our enemies. Justice and peace._ )

If all that is true, why does she feel this darkness, this insanity, leaking from her like a toxin in her blood? Poisonous and cloying, it flows onto her skin, joins the heavy shroud of the fear, flows from her eyes and she finally collapses.

Her hands claw for purchase on the brick wall of an alley she has stumbled into. Her head aches, a migraine of epic proportions. Last time she was in medical, they told her to watch out for them.

Her thoughts, though, are anything but focused as she draws her knees up to herself. One of her shoulders is flanked by a trashcan which blocks her conveniently from the mouth of the alleyway and the other empty, stretching out for an undetermined distance. They alleyway is narrow, not often visited by people, she can see.

There is no one around to see when she finally breaks.

The Black Widow isn't as impervious as she likes to think.

The tears are coming out of her eyes, and she feels only slightly compelled to stop them. The only thing that she can manage is to keep her tears quiet, ever mindful of the communicator that keeps her in constant contact with her superiors. That they can hear every sound she might make.

And she wants to scream. _Everyone_ is screaming, screaming from what she had done to them. Her throat is tight with something she doesn't want to put a name to.

Her brain and eyes and ears are in agony with this inexplicable pain.

All she knows is that she has to be quiet.

She isn't aware of how much time passes. She only listens. She is still close enough to the hospital that she can hear emergency vehicles' sirens flying towards the blaze. Hears the screams and pleas for help. Can almost imagine the unbearable heat the fire would cause, searing flesh down to the bone.

She hears panicked voices, small voices, children, crying out _Mama! Mama!_

They sound terrified.

( _The dancing orange and red, someone holding her back from the flames. One long scream of terror and pain, then silence. Mama._ )

A broken sob, only one, comes from her, and she puts a hand over her mouth to stop any more from coming. Her body tenses and she shakes with the effort of trying to keep her tears silent. They cannot hear. Absolutely cannot. They need her as a soldier, she is their fist. This is who she is, what she was made for.

The Black Widow is coming apart at the seams. She bites down on her fingers, jaw trembling and ever aware of the wetness in her eyes and on her cheeks. Her entire body trembles with the effort to suppress any sound.

She just wants to scream, yell her fury and frustration and sadness to the clouds.

"Black Widow, report," the voice of the General fizzles through the comm that adorns her ear.

The sound of his voice literally makes her cringe, followed by explosions of pain in her temples. She wants to hate. Can't.

"The job is done," she says slowly, taking extra care to keep the tears out of her voice. She has done this since she was a child, so she succeeds.

"Proceed to extraction point. We will have a chopper there in an hour."

"I copy," she says. And then the act is gone again, and she's just... pain pain pain

She can't handle her own silence. Everything is coalescing in a fire that she just needs to let out, because it is burning her.

She plucks the comm out of her ear, wants to crush it but knows she cannot. (She has always hated that word. Can't.) One hand is jammed in her mouth, her teeth still biting.

She holds it in her hand, just looking at it. Her shoulders shake. The audio receptors are not that strong, so she tears a strip of cloth off the sleeve of her shirt, and wraps the little black device in the cloth. Winding it around again and again. She trembling hands, she sets it a few feet to her right.

She swallows heavily.

Lets herself believe in the self-loathing that has become all she can think.

The smell of flames and cooked flesh.

The dancing red and orange.

Sipho. _The nice lady._

The nurse.

All dead.

_I killed them all._

Her breath is coming in heavy, panting gulps, the salt solidifying from her tears on her face in dry tracks.

The screams haven't died down, not at all. They've become blurry to her as she breaks in the dirty alley.

But...

All of this. She can't feel this. She can't. Just cannot.

It is an honor to be chosen. Without her motherland she is nothing. She is not special, nor is she allowed to put the good of herself, of how she feels, above that of her leaders. Above her country and government.

She's been denying it all these years, but she is a child. Theirs. A selfish child who values the lives of others above that of her government.

_What kind of person am I?_

_I am not._

_I am Black Widow._

The pounding, pulsing, burning in her head subsides.

Just follow her orders.

It's what she was made for, after all.

The Widow considers, after everything she has done, all she's killed, she should be numb to it by now. _Shouldn't I?_

* * *

 

Victory. He can taste it. Soon her atrocities will be over, and the scene that played out behind him will never happen again. His hearing slowly is coming back; he can tell because the high whine is disappearing, being replaced by the screams and cries of innocents. Then, he hears his comm chirp in his ear, Phil's voice beginning to thread through. "Barton, check in when you can hear me."

"Minimally," he murmurs.

She essentially stumbles into the alleyway, and once she is within the walls, he assumes her act will stop. He reaches an ideal vantage point, and can look at her straight on.

He reaches back for an arrow. Slowly, as if he is savoring it, taking his time.

The near silent slip of the arrow being nocked accompanies his fingers gripping the string; his whole body is humming with tension. He draws back further, his fingers and the string brushing just beside his lips. His eyes are zeroed in on her form.

Again, he is wrong. Her stumbling does not stop. Her hands are clawing at the walls like they are the only things holding her up. The Black Widow seems to just lose all ability to keep herself upright, and falls to the ground. She looks so young as she curls herself to the wall, hidden in the shadow of a trashcan.

With her knees now drawn up tight to herself, she could pass for a kid. Hell, she might be one. SHIELD still doesn't know exactly how old she is.

But it's not that image that keeps Hawkeye from loosing the arrow that would end her life.

No.

It's the tears.

The tears she keeps silent. Her entire form trembles with the weight of her burden.

"Phil, she's crying," he says quietly.

"I don't think I heard you correctly, Barton. Repeat."

"She's crying. Right in front of me."

"Has she made you?"

"Not that I can tell."

Sympathy, _overwhelming_ sympathy curls in him. He doesn't want it to, but there it is. Coulson made a point to tell him often that he was a nice guy. It's a trait that's gotten him into some scrapes over the years, so he tries to let himself withdraw from those opportunities. _If you hadn't gotten this life you would've been a really good guy. Your everyday Mother Theresa,_ Phil would tell him. Out of context, it sounds kind of cruel, like Coulson thinks Clint isn't a good man ( _Clint sure doesn't on his bad days_ ), but Barton has never taken it that way. Such is his relationship with his handler.

She looks absolutely torn. Torn by indecision, torn by guilt, as he watches her bite down on her hand, teeth biting down _hard_. Her trembling becomes full-on shaking. Hawkeye might be a distance operator, but to survive as an assassin, you better pick up pretty goddamn good skills at reading people. Most of his had come to him in his dark days before SHIELD.

This is no act.

"Barton, don't let her sway you. She's a manipulator."

Logic itself provides several flaws to the theory of manipulation. Why would she even be putting on the show? There is no one around that she's aware of, no mark to manipulate or pry information from. Clint doesn't want to be cocky, but he is excellent at staying hidden, so he is quite certain. As far as the Widow knows, she is alone.

It then dawns on him that he isn't watching the Black Widow.

He's watching a broken woman trying to collect the trashed and scattered pieces of whatever she thinks she is.

Just.

Like.

Him.

The parallel is too much. The bowstring slackens. Inch by inch.

In this moment, in an alleyway in KwaDukuza, Hawkeye sees that the Black Widow is indeed human for the first time.

She hasn't released her hand, and her jaw is stiff, eyes squeezed shut. To stay quiet, he realizes. She is fighting a war to stay silent; as he watches her flinch away from her right side, he can clearly see the bulky, out-of-date communicator jutting from her ear.

He can clearly read her lips. He has a decent grip on Russian. Not quite as good as most of the languages he's mastered, but it's certainly better than his Mandarin.

"The job is done." Then, "I copy."

She then takes it out, wraps it up in a strip of her clothing, and she stops staying silent. Her silence was nothing compared to the voice of her pain. The sound of her sadness reaches his ears, rough and breathless. Sounding like something desperately wanting to join the sane. Haunted.

All the sudden understanding hits him successively, and his conscious struggles to process everything.

He has tracked her for years, seen small discrepancies in her methods. Leaving children alive being a common theme. Barton saw her in Brazil. Was her conversation with the officer the truth? The possibilities spin out before him.

What evidence they have uncovered of the Red Room is nothing positive. What they have learned thus far is minimal but points to horrible acts of cruelty against children. SHIELD knows conclusively Black Widow was one of those children once.

Their best guess based on what they've managed to scrape together about the Red Room is that it was an experimental medical and psychological study on programmable behavior. Specializing in torture and medical experimentation, as well as brain-washing and personality replacement.

Dancing on the line of war crimes.

He wonders if she knows what they've done to her.

He wonders how this is even possible.

He wonders if he has made a mistake.

He wonders why he hasn't shot her yet.

_Because she's him. Lost._

"What would you say to me if I asked you to trust me for the next five minutes?"

Hawkeye hears Coulson sigh over the connection. His handler then says back, "I'd say I trust you to do something stupid."

Barton pauses, eyes still on her below him. "You did it for me," the agent replies quietly, seriously. The meaning and the emotional impact is not lost.

Phil's only response to that is to say, "I believe we are losing radio connection, Agent." Clint knows full well they're not. "This is a serious situation, Barton. Expect to go dark very soon." The SHIELD sniper smiles at the dry delivery. He can't ignore the affection he has for his handler, and his not-so-subtle messaging that he will let Barton go after her without the interference of SHIELD. "This is a potentially life threatening situation," Phil continues in that affable droll he manages so well, "Pursuit after the target is no longer the primary concern. Keep yourself safe until we can reestablish connection."

Barton is continually amazed at how effortlessly Coulson will stick out his neck for his sniper. It's a kind of loyalty he hadn't experienced before SHIELD, and doesn't think he ever will again.

He hears something that sounds like static, and then three rapid clicks that signal that his comm has gone dark.

His plan is only half-cooked when she rises to her feet, seeing that the blank, robotic Black Widow is back in place again.

He wants to stop her, stop her like Coulson did for him, tell her that there is another way to live. A better way. One that clears the red from his ledger. _You don't have to live like this._

It's a shit idea, and he knows it. Stupid, crazy, irrational, and did he mention stupid? Suicidal even. He fears that he has made far too many leaps in judgement about her, but in his gut he feels as if he _knows_ he is right. Even if no one else will believe him, he feels as if he has to help her.

Why should he deny her the chance he had?

* * *

 

The Black Widow stares hard at the opposite wall. Takes a cleansing breath in and out, ignoring the metallic, bitter taint of ash and blood in the air.

She doesn't hear it coming. Many years later, after years of partnership with the man who changed her life, and after many battles with her new teammates, she will tell the Avengers that she didn't hear the arrow that, when she looks back on it, probably changed her life. Small, seemingly insignificant events that would ultimately, drastically, and permanently alter her future.

She doesn't even register the feel of the shaft and fletching brushing across her right cheek until it is buried in the wall behind her.

She has never been so fucking startled in her life. She feels like an electric current runs over her skin for the barest of moments, the hairs on the back of her neck rising in one fell swoop. She dives away from the arrow, knowing that if he wants her dead she will be dead in the next few seconds.

He doesn't miss.

 _Wait a second..._ That thought gives her pause. _He doesn't miss._

The trashcan that had initially obscured her from the mouth of the alley she drags in front of her. Weak shelter, but better than just putting a giant X on her forehead by remaining in the open.

"You missed," she calls out in English, a little more breathless than she would have liked. She curses because she's made noise and just taunted an opponent. She doesn't do that anymore.

She doesn't expect a response, but she gets one anyway. "Did I?"

That's about the time Widow notices that her comm is no longer in her right ear.

Her eyes flick to where the arrow is embedded in the brick and concrete. Her immediate reaction is to be impressed, because the head is literally buried in the red clay, by at least a few inches. She can see the shattered remains of her comm around it. _Damn. He has good aim._ That certainly shouldn't be her first thought. Her first thought should be finding out where he is so she can either kill him or stay out of his line of sight. Judging by the angle of the arrow, he's on the opposite wall in the alley.

She looks up to find him on the edge, but is surprised to see him making his way to the fire escape. Her impression is that he's quick. She'll give him that. Built more like a runner than a weightlifter, he is lean and nimble as he avoids the rickety ladders between each level, swinging around the poles like an acrobat. His shoulders and forearms are bloodied, and she bets he caught some of the concussion from the blast. She doesn't catch a glimpse of his face, and she doesn't plan to.

She won't stick around to see what he wants from her. She knows that if they don't kill you they want something from you.

She scrambles gracelessly to her feet, and runs for the streets. He may be quick, but she knows how to lose someone in a crowd, in winding streets. "Wait, I won't hurt you-" Widow hears him calling after her, but she refuses to listen.

This is exactly what she is made for, and she does it well.

Well, she would be if she hadn't been tripped up by something grabbing a hold of her pant leg. Her opposite leg compensates and she doesn't fall, and has enough balance to flick her gaze backwards to where she feels the resistance.

There's an arrow through the fabric that now pins it to the cement beneath her. _What on earth are these arrows made from?_

Her eyes catch his form dropping from the second story onto the ground, absorbing the landing in his legs and then walking towards her. Man, she misses her guns right now.

She contorts herself so that she can reach her trapped leg, and after pulling futilely at the shaft, resorts to ripping the trapped fabric.

She hates how she looks like a trapped animal right now.

The Widow manages to free herself, but by then, Hawkeye, the master archer himself, is almost standing over her. And he has an arrow nocked and pointed straight at her prone form. She freezes instantly. God, and she shouldn't. Her life is meaningless. She exists solely for the motherland. ( _Do not yield until death. Death is preferable to giving away information. You must be strong in the face of death. For it is not something to fear, but a measure of protection._ ) But she stops. Just like in São Paulo. She stops and she hates herself for it.

Despite her error, she knows how to do this. Stall until she can turn the situation to her advantage. She remembers those lessons too.

He hasn't killed her yet, so she takes that as a sign he won't do so for a while. She climbs to her feet, eyes never leaving the arrow pointed in her direction, the hands that draw it back.

"I really wouldn't go any father than that," he says, "or I'll put an arrow through your skull."

She says the first thing that comes to mind. Something she's actually wondered for a while. "Strange choice of weapon. Not as efficient as a gun."

He just shrugs. He's obviously used to these kinds of questions. "For most people, yeah, probably."

He doesn't offer anything further, preferring to just stare her down. The Black Widow rolls her eyes. "What do you want from me?"

"I have standing orders to kill you, actually."

"You've done a good job of that so far."

He actually has the gall to laugh. "Well, you are interesting." He has moved so that he is standing between Widow and the mouth of the alley.

His words make no sense to her. "If you are here to kill me, just kill me."

"Why so eager for your own death?" Hawkeye asks in a light, curious tone.

"Why so eager to keep me alive?" she fires back. She could tell the truth to stall like she had done in Brazil, but that would require her to kill him. If what she has heard of him was true, that would be no small feat.

"Because I'm here to tell you that you don't have to do shit like this anymore."

She blinks in confusion. "Shit like this?"

"What you're doing. You just blew an entire hospital to kill a single mark. I saw you here. You regret it."

She forgets sometimes that he is likely just as skilled as she at reading people. Not that she'd been hiding it, but the sentiment remains. Her reaction is anger at herself. She allowed herself to have weakness. That cannot be tolerated. "I regret nothing in the service of my country."

"That's a load of bullshit, and you know it."

Her eyes widen. Those words are essentially the core of how she has lived her life. She narrows her eyes, tone accusing, as she says, "I wouldn't expect you to understand."

How long has it been since she received the transmission from the General? At least fifteen minutes by her estimates. She has only forty-five minutes to get to the extraction site, and she knows it will take her at least thirty-five to get to the predetermined point. She needs to end this soon.

"Oh, but I think I do understand. I think you want to please your country. The good of all above the good of one, right? That's a common theme among the Reds. But you don't understand why they make you do these things. You want to understand, you pretend you understand, you rationalize everything and think that the answer is there somewhere, you just can't find it." The head of the arrow is dangerously close to her personal space now.

She realizes belatedly that she has backed away from it until her back has hit the wall.

He keeps talking and she really wishes that he would stop. "Do you know what the Red Room was, Widow? Do you know what they did to you in there?"

( _No, no, please don't-. Her diaphragm struggles, heaves and writhes, but the only thing she can manage is a pained, hissing breath.Two silver bullet-looking objects protruding from her temples. Blood seeps from her head. Channeling electricity through the body is the key. Your talents cannot be wasted on normalcy, Widow. You have the privilege of being special. To waste such talent would be criminal._ )

( _You will have to kill them, Widow. We have chosen you for this task. It is a great honor to be chosen. She falls, and it's no act this time. Painful, twisted, sickeningly truthful mercy. One jerk, feels the cord rip, feels the resistance, doesn't take no for an answer, applies more pressure. The final snap. Higher pitched than the rest. Pouring salt into the wounds, her eyes jerk open the moment before she leaves the world. A splash of blue against the white and the red._ )

"My personal feelings are irrelevant. It is all in the service of the greater good."

He lowers the bow, and she finally, really sees his face. He looks sharp, angular. Looks a lot like his namesake, actually. Tan, like he spends a lot of time outdoors rather than it being genetic. His gray eyes are pinning her as solidly as his arrows.

She knows in the back of her mind she should strike now. But she doesn't.

"That's what you keep telling yourself."

"Because it's the truth!" Widow snaps.

The Hawk doesn't flinch. He looks like he is contemplating something, almost shifting his head to the side, eyes barely narrowing. "I don't want to kill you but I don't think I can just let you go."

The switch in topic was abrupt, and it almost throws the Widow. "Then it's a good thing that you won't have to do either." And then she punches him in the face.

It doesn't have the effect most of her punches would. He's a trained fighter too, and recovers quickly, and instead of shooting at her like she had anticipated, he counters with his own right hook.

It lands squarely on her jaw, and the concussion of that blow is swiftly followed by one of the worst uppercuts she has felt in her life. Despite not being built like one, he sure punches like a weightlifter. She worries that he'd dislocated her jawbone, but its still in place she feels with a quick jiggle.

She'd been right when she thought he was quick. A fast kick to his midsection pushes him back far enough that she can mount her offense.

The Black Widow is almost ready to perform her signature move, until a sharp, "Hey! What are you doing?" disrupts the flow of their fighting.

An oversized police officer is jogging towards them from the opening of the alley.

She takes her advantage where she can get it. "Officer! Officer, he's trying to rape me!" The Widow screeches at him in Afrikaans.

The officer, upon realizing he has stumbled upon an actual crime, hustles faster towards the pair. "Stop right there!" he huffs.

Hawkeye looks at her incredulously. "Really? That is _dirty_. I expected a bit more from the Black Widow." He doesn't actually sound worried.

The officer has finally arrived and is a scant ten feet from where they had faced off.

She looks at the police officer, not having to try very hard to summon the weak victim, "Please stop him!"

When she turns back to where the Hawk had been standing, she sees nothing. Widow looks up to see him already halfway up the fire escape. _He's fucking quiet, too._

"Are you okay ma'am?" Officer... Anton asks.

She doesn't answer, doesn't need to. Just glides past and heads for the street.

The cop calls after her, and she doesn't stop. She has to get to the extraction point.

She rationalizes that she didn't have the time to kill him. He's a highly-skilled assassin, and any serious fight they would get into would lead to a long, drawn out battle that could quite possibly leave her dead. It would also mean she would never make it to the extraction point on time.

When she rationalizes it, it all makes sense.

At least that's what she tells herself.

* * *

 

In her official report, she says her comm was faulty and fell out of her ear and was lost in the chaos ensuing the explosion as she made her way to the extraction point.

She doesn't know why she lies.

* * *

 

In their official report, they say the communicator was likely damaged by the explosion, and worked only minimally before ceasing to function entirely. The loss of radio contact made it impossible to pursue the Black Widow without endangering the agent's life.

They both know exactly why they lie.


	21. Drakov's Daughter: Part 1 of 3

They can both tell that Fury is beyond angry if the way that weird little vein in his forehead is pulsing or the way his eye is bulging so far out it seems like it's going to pop out is any indication. Also, his yelling makes it pretty obvious as well.

Barton tunes out of his spiel at around the third or fourth 'stupid ass decision' because obviously this is just Fury blowing off steam. Hey, SHIELD directors need to blow up in people's faces too. Doesn't mean aforementioned people need to listen word-for-word.

Besides, Phil is doing enough active listening for the both of them.

There had been nothing outright suggesting they had let the Widow go in their reports or in the mission logs. The only thing that might be suspect would be the comm recordings, but SHIELD usually doesn't make the recordings. Don't want any evidence of prolific assassinations or spying floating around. However, it does happen sometimes, but Barton suspects that it hadn't this time since Fury seems to be all bluster and lots of angry gestures. No solid proof.

"Last time I checked, Barton is a capable enough agent to not warrant constant comm contact," Barton hears Fury all but growl in Phil's face when he tunes back into the one-way conversation.

"To be fair, sir," Barton interjects, wanting to take the heat off his handler who had just been backing him up and Clint knows he owes Coulson, "before that mission we'd just had an intense staff meeting about the importance of following protocol and I guess that message just really resonated with us."

Fury's look says everything Hawkeye needs to know, but he backs it up with words anyway, "Your shit is not appreciated here, agent."

Coulson doesn't need to encourage his agent to shut up after that. Clint knows his particular brand of humor has never been appreciated by Fury, although he doesn't think _anyone's_ humor has ever been appreciated by Fury, but Barton couldn't deny the guilty keening because he knows that the baggage and complications from this situation rests squarely on his shoulders.

It's his own mind that berates him constantly about it. No need for Fury's angry words, because Barton is a capable practitioner of self-punishment.

After the thorough tongue-lashing Clint halfheartedly pays attention to, Fury sends the two away with an angry, final "Get out of my office. I've got a two o'clock", obviously annoyed he doesn't get the answers he desires.

Hawkeye certainly isn't sure how to feel about the situation either. It's been two weeks-not a word. In hindsight, it's not surprising, but it still stings that he hadn't been entirely right about her. Clint still holds out the candle for the Widow, but can't deny the heavy feeling of doubt in his gut.

Meanwhile, Coulson isn't feeling less than hopeful. "Fury's not wrong, you know."

Clint doesn't try to hide his bristling. "About?" Tension has been building between the assassin and his handler since the mission, and despite Phil's assurance that he has been behind Barton's decision, the archer isn't so sure any more. Hell, he's not one hundred percent himself, but still... the way she _was..._ he can't shake the feeling that she will turn around.

Coulson gives Clint a look. "You know what about."

The air between them thickens. "You think I made a mistake?"

Obviously sensing where this interaction is headed, Phil tries to diffuse the intensity. "Look, I don't blame you, you were rattled by the explosion, maybe you thought you saw something-"

"Cut the understanding crap, Phil," Agent Barton interrupts, "I know what I saw."

Clint's friend and mentor stops in his tracks, the archer following suit. The hall they made their way down after Fury's dismissal is deserted, and despite the privacy, Coulson keeps his voice low. There is no mistaking the impatience and the stirrings of anger despite the volume. "You want me to cut the crap? Okay, then. Here it is: you messed up. Big time. She is the most wanted target and all of SHIELD is on high alert for her and any of her activities. We _had_ her. She blew up a damn hospital full of innocent civilians, and you were on her. You had her in your crosshairs and then you just decided to let her go?"

"Hey, I didn't decide _anything-_ "

Agent Coulson scoffs. "Oh right, the little police officer interruption. Barton, you and I both know that isn't why you left her."

"Since you obviously have a deeper understanding of myself than I do, why don't you tell me?" Barton demands.

"You're too close to this," he concludes. "You can't make rational decisions when it comes to her." And in that infuriatingly calm way of his, Coulson leans back on his heels and crosses his arms as if he's just delivered a damning final argument.

Barton's having none of it. "Rational my ass. Phil, I am probably the person who wanted her dead most in the goddamned world. You know that. I have seen up close what she does to people, and not just read about it in reports," he accuses ( _somewhat unfairly, because he knows Phil has seen what she's done as well._ ) "Why the hell would I just let a murderer walk if I didn't have a reason?"

"You know, Barton, I really don't know, that's why I'm asking."

 _As bad as it sounds..._ "Call it my gut."

Clint will never forget the look of incredulous shock on his handler's face. "You let her go because of _your gut_?"

Barton figures it can't get any worse. _In for a penny, in for a pound._ "Or instinct or feeling or whatever! I don't think she's as bad as we think she is."

Coulson looks like he wants to leap all over what Barton just said, but instead just focuses on one point: "But you agree she is bad? Because we have killed for a lot less than what she's done."

"You're obviously trying to say something to me."

"Yes. I am trying to say that maybe that wasn't the call you should have made."

"Well then, it appears we disagree."

Clint cannot remember the last time, or _any_ time, really, his handler looked this pissed. "Cut the shit, Barton. She hasn't contacted you or tried to reach out or stop what she is doing in any way! You've deluded yourself into thinking she is just like you-"

"So I'm delusional now?" Barton asks sarcastically, not that it really stops Phil.

His handler obviously heard him but ignores the statement completely. "The only reason I went after you was because you showed signs of remorse-"

"No, Phil, now _you_ cut the shit," Hawkeye interrupts, not wanting to listen anymore. "The only reason you even knew I existed was because of my range scores in the Army. You were just hoping you could turn me back to your side when you offered me a little good will, offered me a job, offered to scrub my record."

"And you did. It barely took any time at all for you to contact me and come in." Coulson doesn't deny it and the fact that he can't deny it has hurt Clint for a long time, but now is not the time to be caught up in sentiment.

"I was a trickshot at the circus and joined the military then went hitman-for-hire. For all we know, she was brainwashed and manipulated and not killing me was an act of rebellion."

"You have to know how crazy that sounds."

"Of course I do, but we can't rule it out."

There's an uneasy silence for a few moments before Coulson speaks again. "I just sure as hell hope this doesn't get blown to hell." It's an olive branch, and Clint takes it, despite how angry he is.

"You and me both, Coulson. You and me both."

It doesn't fix anything, but it settles the fight for now. No matter what happens, one of them will be right, and one of them will be wrong. There will be no middle ground.

* * *

 

The pain subsides only briefly, fading to a bright burn rather than blinding agony, but then that comes back and she can't remember which way is up or what shape a square is or what color is red.

All she knows is pain.

Pain. _It is an honor to be chosen._

_Your talents cannot be wasted on normalcy._

_The good of all above the good of one._

She doesn't try to remember his words, but there they are, pulsing like a supernova about to climax: _you don't have to do this anymore._

And there's the agony again and she feels like she is losing.

* * *

 

An arrow looses from the bowstring, the fletching sliding through his fingers, ghosting past his cheek, and just barely skimming past the leather training guard on his forearm. It's a split second occurrence, and in the next it is embedded in the target.

It's not a challenge. He could hit a stationary target like the ones in the SHIELD range in his sleep. It's when he ricochets it off of walls and floors that it gets fun. He can't just use his regular arrowheads to ricochet- the ones he normally uses he made himself and will literally embed themselves in anything, no matter the angle. So he has his specialized ones, the ones that will cooperate. His pursuit of perfection in archery is an always time-consuming project- especially crafting arrows. If he needs a new head, he doesn't trust SHIELD science and tech division to make them properly, so he has to do it himself. These ricochet heads are his second generation ( _he laughs at himself sometimes at how seriously he takes it_ ) and need testing. And he needs something to take his mind off of how shitty the situation is that he has found himself in.

Clint hates fighting with Phil. The man is the closest thing he has to family since Barney left him, and he is frustrated that Coulson can't see this the way he can. A juvenile notion, maybe, but Clint is also humble enough to acknowledge his handler's concerns.

Again, he has his doubts.

So, after he and Phil parted ways, things still not completely comfortable between them, he did what he always does to clear his head- shoot.

He likes these arrowheads. A little more weighted in the front than the first batch. Gets a sharper response, more control over the angle. Not perfect, but getting there.

Hawkeye fires another arrow, and another, and another, just listening to himself breath and the rush of his blood.

Midway through reaching for his next arrow, his specialized SHIELD pager beeps from where he had left it behind him. He lowers his bow, but doesn't set it down as he goes to check it. It's from Phil. **Inf brief in 10. 48I.** Calling him to the intelligence gathering room dedicated to the Black Widow. Yes, she has an entire room dedicated to finding her and killing her. There's an information briefing in ten. Attendance always mandatory when it comes to the Widow.

Well, he figures, he's gotta face his handler sooner or later. He'd prefer it not to be in the literal eye of the storm of what has caused their whole argument but life sucks that way, and he's a big boy. He can handle it. He stows the bow and quiver and heads to 48I.

The room is very well lit and has all of its computers along the walls occupied by roughly a dozen agents. The walls and floor are done in dark colors except for one wall which is encompassed by a glass, holographic imagery display, coined the 'holoboard'. A massive, LED-lit war table takes up the center of the room, filled with photographs, face trace results, reports, autopsy results, a few burnt and twisted remains of magnetic tape that once stored video footage of the Widow's acts, and countless other pieces of evidence gathered in the search for the Russian assassin. The rest is boxed and stored in evidence lockup.

At the sound of the door opening, Phil greets, "Hello, Agent," without turning, posture focused on the holoboard. So, professionalism it is. Barton can do professional.

"Agent Coulson." Clint is aware of how cold he sounds. He kind of regrets it, but kind of doesn't.

His handler stands next to the head information tech, Hawkeye only knows him as Fisher who has a penchant for wearing colorful socks with sandals with plaid shirts and a braided ponytail, with security clearance no one can shake a stick at, but for Clint and Coulson it's a bit laughable.

Barton approaches the war table, and leans against it, facing the holoboard with expectant eyes. "So why'd you call me up here?"

"We have new information," Fisher offers instead of Coulson, turning in his chair with a tablet in his hand. Barton sees he has chosen a pair of pink socks with dog paw prints on them, with khaki shorts and a Bubba Gump Shrimp Factory t-shirt beneath a red plaid button-up. Barton likes his 'I give no fucks about your skintight uniform code' attitude. "A lot of it."

"Well, that's one I have never heard before," Clint says, his words sharp and clipped. Once, he might have been excited about the new break, but now, with his suspicion of her loyalties, it might be the last thing he wants to hear.

Fisher doesn't comment on the tone. "Well, recently the government in Russia declassified a huge portion of their archives. Normally, classification wouldn't stop me," he says, tapping something out on the tablet, "but we are talking so classified there are only hard copies, and even those were locked up in some archival room so deep in the Kremlin they're probably surrounded by magma."

"Why couldn't we just break in? We've done it before," Barton points out.

"Because we couldn't," Coulson answers, "First off, we didn't even know if these files even existed, much less where they were located. Second, relations with Russia haven't been all that stellar. They've been improving recently, and the Council doesn't want any major fuck ups on our part to destroy the progress."

After a moment to process, Barton says, "Well, then, what was so classified they didn't dare digitize it? Also, why are they airing out their dirty laundry now?"

"One question at a time, Bill Nye," Fisher says, and after a few taps to the tablet in his hand, the holoboard flares to life, the glass turning a liquid-looking white-blue. "Question numero uno," he begins, sliding his fingers along the small screen in his hand, "The Red Room may not have been as government-sanctioned as we had thought."

"What do you mean?" Coulson asks, turning from the screen and to Fisher.

"It may have started off legit, but it sure didn't finish that way." A series of papers began to appear on the holoboard in ordered patterns. "These are all sorts of executive orders and bureaucratic nonsense that I still have to sort all the way through, but the gist of the situation is this: The Red Room program started back in World War Two, not long after Captain America became the Lady Gaga of the thirties. Seems the Reds wanted their very own patriotic crusader, and were attempting to replicate the process used on Steve Rogers."

"So, it was basically an R&D department for supersoldiers," Coulson concludes. Which isn't that strange- every developed nation tried to recreate their own Captain America at some point in their histories.

Fisher nods enthusiastically, "Essentially, that is exactly what is was. But only at first. According to the reports to the up-and-ups, the research was becoming less and less about a perfect replica of Captain America and more and more focused on how to create the perfect spy."

"The perfect spy," Barton repeats quietly to himself. So many things are going through his head, about the Widow, about the Red Room. All of the possibilities are spinning out before him, further convincing him that the probability that he is indeed correct about the Widow increasing.

"Define the perfect spy," Coulson asks.

Fisher replies, "I should be asking you that. Whatever you can think of, they wanted it; cold, emotionless, strong to a kind of inhuman degree, supernatural stamina, high pain threshold, a follower of orders no matter what, inability to think independently from the state..." The tech looked back down to his tablet. "Seriously, you name it, they tried it. Even some fringe theories they tries out early on- invisibility, astral projection, immortality, reanimation. Seriously freaky shit."

"Did they succeed?" Barton asks. _Reanimation? You've got to be kidding._

"We don't know, but as far as we can tell there is no evidence they had any real successes with the fringe-y stuff," Fisher answers. The colorful man commands the tablet to project more images on the screen. Photographs. Operating tables, surgical instruments, what looks like electroshock therapy machines, restraints, and a myriad of other devices that would perfectly fit into a nightmare involving an insane doctor. "What we do know is that they tried a whole host of really twisted stuff to achieve their ends. Electrical stimulation, brainwashing, advanced physical and psychological torture, drug injections, but-" the largest of the images appears on the screen, blocking all the others, "this was their Ninth Symphony right here."

It looks like a duo of plastic circles, the scale ruler next to them saying the larger one is about the size and breadth of a child's fingernail, the other a few millimeters smaller. They almost look like glass, but the photo shows clearly very thin silver and copper filaments running through them. Some sort of tracking device? Although Barton has never seen such a tracking device in his entire life. "What the hell is that?" he questions, squinting at the holoboard as if it will suddenly yield the answer to him the harder he stares.

"I'm not entirely sure," Fisher answers, "but based on what I've read, the dynamic duo there are supposed to control the behavior of the subject whose brain they are placed in."

Coulson shifts minutely, and asks deadpan, "So are we looking at a mind-control device?"

Fisher sighs and shrugs, heading back to his chair and plopping into it in frustration, "That was their hope, but I can't actually be entirely certain of what it does unless we actually have one in our hands to study. Which we don't." He clears the holoboard and looks back at Barton, "And to answer your question, Birdman, they didn't technically release it. Still classified well above top secret but they recently decided it wasn't important enough to not digitize the information and, well, you can't keep Fisher out of anything with a motherboard."

"You also said it didn't finish entirely government sanctioned," Coulson reminds the hacker, who nods in response.

"At first there was funding and support galore, but as they produced no results, friends and rubles began to get a little sparse. Then they found out what horrendous human rights violations were happening within those walls, and since the fall of the USSR, the government was new and scrambling and the Red Room just... ceased to exist."

"Well, that doesn't add up, because the Black Widow came onto the scene well after the Reds became Russians," Barton points out, puzzle pieces that had seemingly fit together in his head suddenly flying apart. There are too many inconsistencies. What are they missing?

"Well, there is no real paper trail of the Red Room's activities after the Union fell, but," Fisher says before pausing briefly, tapping out a series of codes on his tablet and bringing some images onto the screen. One depicts an older man, in full Soviet military regalia. He's broad beneath the uniform, not the kind that comes with lifting weights or excess fat, just a natural largeness that immediately screams _bully_. His features are broad too, wide nose and mouth, head topped in black that is peppered with such a large amount of gray it's hard to distinguish that his hair color was once black. His brown eyes are dead- not even cruel or sadistic or any of the usual suspects. Just dead. "That, friends, is the service picture of General Ivan Petrovich Bezukhov, wanted not only by Russia, but by the International Criminal Court for war crimes. Torturing prisoners and killing literal boatloads of people. I can go on for quite a while, but in short, he is a bad dude who is probably some sort of masochist or psychopath or serial killer or all of the above."

Barton runs a hand through his hair before sighing, "Why do we care about Ivan?"

"Well, I don't have enough to take to Wells Fargo but I think I have enough to fill the piggy bank," Fisher responds. "Bezukhov was a big supporter of Communism. Like, a _hey, let's take over the world and convert all countries to communism because democracy and capitalism suck_ kind of supporter. He had a lot of friends with a lot of connections with the same ideas. After the USSR fell, Russia had no interest in protecting him from the ICC anymore, and he dropped off the map. But, most of his friends didn't. And it was a group of those pro-Commies that bought up the facility that housed the government's Red Room program."

"So your theory is that Bezukhov is still running the show?" Coulson says, more of a statement than a question.

"That is my theory but I'd bet my vintage baseball card collection except Kirby Puckett that he's doing it under a different name. But wait, I am not done, my good sir," Fisher says, who probably should be Agent Fisher by now and given a fucking medal for discovering in a few months what SHIELD hasn't been able to for years. "These friends gladly leased the building out to the Russian army, who used the top four floors for certain training phases of new recruits. But every floor beneath that is supposedly 'empty.'" The technician puts air quotes around the last word.

Barton nods, following Fisher's logic. "So that's where all their training went on."

The tech confirms, "So goes my thinking, but we can't know for sure until I get more info."

"Do we have anything in regards to the Widow's identity?" Coulson asks.

The holoboard is cleared once more and replaced with an image of an old Soviet birth certificate. "We believe she was born Natalya Alianovna Romanova on January 3, 1984. Her parents were Sergei Romanov and Anya Kozakova-Romanova. They were killed in a pretty mysterious house fire in December of 1986, the cause or why they could not get out while their daughter did was never officially determined or reported." A shot of an old newspaper shows the charred remains of a home, and another photo captures an official-looking man in a suit holding the hand of a little girl. A scared looking child with red hair. "Instead of looking for a next of kin, she was taken custody of by the government, into Soviet foster care, as it were, and that was that. No other records for her exist.

"As far as we've been able to tell, the participants in the program were all female, and all given codenames."

There's something in what Fisher says that hits Barton the wrong way. "Wait, operatives, as in plural, as in there is more than one Black Widow?"

"We don't believe so. According to what we have, only one came out of the program."

"What happened to the others?" Clint asks.

"We don't know. So far most of this is just a mystery wrapped inside of an enigma wrapped inside of a taco eaten by Agatha Christie."

Coulson is the one who asks, "Do you have any leads on where she is currently?"

Fisher shakes his head, somewhat dejected. "She's in the wind."

* * *

 

**La Rochelle, France**

**Beauchene Estate**

**Just past sunset**

The elegant red dress falls over her pale skin like silk, in a daring cut that dips low on her back, ( _she tries to ignore the fact that she had to spend three and a half hours carefully covering the scars of her back with concealing makeup and paint_ ) curves in to cling to her sides and finishes in loose waves that shimmer in the light as she walks. Her lips are painted violently scarlet to match, eyes done with smokey eye makeup that brings out the teal in her eyes that have grown bluer over time. Her pale skin makes her look ethereal, angelic. Her hair is its natural tone, although it carries with it subtle hints of burgundy from her last mission that did not get fully stripped with her last dye job. The brown that merely deepens the red into mahogany do nothing to detract from the overall image of a woman who looks beautiful in red.

Partygoers turn and look at her, some do double takes, many men smile and simper at her, insinuation heavy in their gazes. Some women look upon her with hopeless envy, some with jealous scorn.

The Black Widow knows how to make an entrance.

But tonight, she is not the Black Widow. Tonight, she is Natalia Shostakova, philanthropist and mysterious elbow-rubber with the high society folk. It is a comfort to her to know she can still carry a guise without much effort, can still hold attention and enthrall a room with a false persona. What happened in South Africa did not shake her because she is the Black Widow and she cannot be shaken, but his words still come to her. Almost constantly.

She tells herself it's because he got away, because she didn't kill him.

That's the reason. There's no other possibility.

The Widow falls back into Natalia, with her smiles and debonair flourish and beauty.

The building has soaring ceilings, with gilded arches and marble buttresses flying upwards with it. A second floor balcony wraps around the main party room, and several groups engaging in private, quiet discussions have moved up there. Shades of blue, cream, white, and silver are captured in expensive fabrics and velvets draped over tables and as decorative tapestries. A quintet of cellos hum a constant, quiet melody to underscore the buzz of muted conversation.

Considering her darkly enticing attire, she hadn't gone unnoticed in the room, exactly as planned.

The host of the gathering, Constance Beauchene, an insignificant character in the grand plan but still necessary to achieve her ends, along with her husband Andre, make their way over to now-Natalia. Putting on her best polite smile, she meets them halfway. "Ms. Shostakova, I presume."

Natalia simpers, looking honored and flattered Constance knows her name. "You presume correctly. It's lovely to meet you in person, Mrs. Beauchene."

"Please, Constance."

"Natalia, then."

"Very well, Natalia, I am pleased-"

_You are doing very well, Natalya. Your leaders are very pleased._

She snaps out of the throes of the memory quickly enough to catch the gist of what Mrs. Beauchene had been saying, "-has truly revitalized our efforts in Guatemala. Without your generosity, it would have been impossible."

The lingering scent of metal and blood fill her mind and it seems as if the warm air of the party has suddenly taken on the taint of the memory, but she knows that is not true. Her heart rate has picked up significantly. Her adrenaline is running even though she is not in a fight and has never felt nerves from lying. "I'm so glad to hear that," she responds, no trace of discomfort heard in her voice, "Your organization has done a tremendous amount of good and I am happy to be able to make it possible." Since her run in and subsequent escape ( _but it wasn't really an escape and deep down, she knows it_ ) from Hawkeye, flashes of things she doesn't remember happening force their way into the forefront of her mind.

What makes her remember them is the familiarity. She can remember the physical sensations, and it feels like déjà vu in reverse.

Their conversation goes on in that politely comfortable way, but the Black Widow ( _that's who she is. Black Widow. Black Widow. Black Widow. The Black Widow spider is renowned for the female spider's cannibalistic mating tendencies._ ) is ever point oriented, and eventually works up to it naturally in conversation, as not to draw suspicion, "I would love to talk to Dr. Drakov about the work he has been doing. Is he here this evening?" Because she is here for the mark.

_There is so much red._

_You don't have to live like this._

_State your name._

_Black Widow._

The gracious host would never refuse a guest, and she points Natalia to the bar where a lone man is standing.

"Thank you. I hope we will talk again," she says with a parting smile.

Roughly 1.85 meters tall, on the lean and wiry side of his weight class. Easily recognizable physical markers- long, square face, prudent chin. Dark blonde hair, and green eyes.

She is glad for his physical attractiveness. Maybe this will finally be the mark she won't have to lie to about her lack of lubrication ( _but she knows he won't be. She's fucked men just as handsome and encountered the same problem every single time._ )

She straightens her shoulders, pushes her chest out, slides into the familiar if uncomfortable skin of seduction. "Dr. Drakov?" she asks, makes her voice a bit timid as she comes up on his right side.

He'd been resting on his forearms with what looks like a double shot of whiskey when he turns to face her completely. "Yes?"

She smiles wider, "I'm so pleased to finally meet you." At his questioning glance, she thrusts a hand out quickly, as if she'd forgotten, "Natalia Shostakova."

He smiles a bit too, when he recognizes her name. "Ah, and I am happy to make your acquaintance as well." He takes her hand, she notes that his are much softer compared to hers. Hands untouched by violence. Very fitting for doctor's hands.

"I just wanted to tell you how impressed I am by your years of service to Doctors Without Borders. I work closely with the organization and I've been to some of the places you have helped and the patients haven't stopped raving about you. I was just curious as to where you were headed next."

"I appreciate you saying so but, well, I haven't worked with the organization in some time."

"Why not?" The Widow knows perfectly well why.

He clears his throat a bit uncomfortably, eyes wandering for a moment before coming back to her. "My wife passed almost two years ago. I had to return home to care for our daughter."

She is a good enough actress to look horrified with herself. "Of course, I'm so sorry. I'd heard she'd passed and I am sorry I never got to extend my condolences. She sounded like a wonderful woman."

He smiles in a forlorn way that she can identify but not understand. "That she was."

"How old is your daughter?" she asks, switching tracks as she could sense she'd been losing his interest quite quickly.

"She's two."

"Well, I'm sure that's an exciting time for you at home," she replied with a simpering smile. It might be hard to move from talk of his daughter to seducing him, but she had worked her way out of harder conversations before and still managed to get the men and women to come to bed with her.

He smiles back, but it's obvious his heart isn't in it, "That's a way of putting it."

She doesn't lose her expression of kindness melting into something else, inwardly she frowns. He is acting very disinterested in her, which is rare, especially when she really puts an effort behind it.

Time to change up her game a bit. She flags down the bartender. "Can we get two more of what he's having?"

He sees what she's doing and tries to refuse, "Oh, you don't have to-"

She changes from kind and polite to playful and interested. "No, please, I want to." Also, the alcohol would loosen him up a bit, hopefully more pliable and willing to go along with her machinations. "Besides, it's an open bar. Might as well take advantage."

"I really shouldn't. I have a kid to get home to."

She let her playful look slide into seriousness. "If there is anything I have learned in my life it's that you have a responsibility to yourself as well. You shouldn't just run yourself ragged looking out for everyone else's interests and not your own." She finishes with a soft, understanding smile.

He looks initially like he will refuse, but she knows he won't. His behavior pattern is predictable. He has a propensity for alcoholism. He went through a very heavy drinking period in the months after his wife's death. Although he got it under control in the past year and a half, he is still prone to the lure of alcohol. She also knows that he does occasionally pick up random women and take them to anonymous, by-the-hour hotels, and never to his home. He likes girls with red hair.

"I... I suppose you're right."

And with that, she knows that the deal is sealed. Her smile widens, "I usually am," she answers, letting Natalia loosen up a bit more as she picks up her drink delivered by the barkeeper. She raises the tumbler, gesturing for a toast. "To new friends," she says, holding his gaze to make him understand exactly what she means.

"To new beginnings," he says back, not shying from the direct eye contact like he had before.

The glass clinks, Natalia and Drakov flirt and drink, and the Widow watches.

She would like to just have sex with him, and get the answers, and then kill him. It's her standard fare, but that isn't the mission this time.

The time passes quickly, both of them refilling their drinks multiple times, and the Widow watches for signs of drunkenness, but he holds his alcohol well, though it certainly loosens his tongue to a useful degree. Obviously not to the degree that she would eventually need, but enough to begin to slowly gain his trust.

She counts each drink. After his second glass with her he begins to share his experiences with his work, stories from med school, usual first meeting thoroughfare. After his third, he shares stories of his daughter, he begins to laugh.

Natalia makes him laugh.

She meets him halfway, sharing falsified stories of her own work with humanitarian organizations, of getting her law degree. The conversation flows very well between the two, and the Widow knows that Drakov likes Natalia very much. Much more than the average woman he just takes to a motel and fucks. The kind of woman he could be open to loving, trusting, sharing his life with. Because that's the kind of woman Natalia was crafted to be.

There is no overlap there. It's just Natalia growing fond of the young doctor. Just Natalia liking the way he smiles and laughs. Just Natalia admiring his love for his daughter. The Widow is only watching.

( _She doesn't want to admit she hates what she is going to do._ )

"So I finally pry the door open and, I kid you not, there was this twelve foot long python taking up the entire storage cabinet!" Natalia shares animatedly.

Drakov laughs openly now, then says incredulously, "No way, a python? How did it even fit into a cabinet?"

"Snakes can get anywhere if they really, really want to, Gavril." She tests out the use of his first name to see how he reacts.

He looks pleased by it, which is an excellent sign. "Well, Natalia, you've sure had some adventures."

"I have a lot more," she says, "Only if you'd like to hear them, I suppose." By this time, a great number of the party guests had cleared out, many of the wait staff have begun to clean the room. The classy way of saying Party's over. Get out. "Well, when we're not at the end of the night, anyway." She pauses, waiting for her words to have the proper effect. "I'd really like to see you again," she offers with a smile.

He responds in kind, "I'd like that, too."

Natalia slips a card with a phone number on it from her clutch.

"I'll be seeing you soon, Gavril," she says, standing from the barstool where she had been perched for the past several hours.

He makes no moves to get up yet, but his answering smile is bright with anticipation and want. "And I you, Natalia."


	22. Drakov's Daughter: Part 2 of 3

Gavril Drakov is a constant surprise. He never tries to move in on her, despite the fact that most of her marks can never resist her at her best. And she pulls out all the stops to try to entice him into bed with her without actually outright saying it. Men usually fall in love through sex, and they like to think it was themselves that initiated it. Appealing to the alpha male ego that does in fact hide in every man. But for some reason, the casual slips of her dresses up her thigh, dropping things so that her mark can get a nice view of both her ass and her cleavage, the occasional, 'accidental' brushes against him just don't seem to work on Drakov. He seemed determined to not sleep with her if he can help it. So the Widow plays along.

She can't deny an acute feeling of relief when he doesn't respond like she knows she should want him to. It has been so long since she hasn't had to fake orgasms when in fact she is in quite a bit of pain, hasn't had to pretend to be attracted to men who do absolutely nothing for her. It's like a weight is off of her, something she never thought she was carrying. She never realized how good it feels to not worry about pulling herself through seduction.

It doesn't hurt that Drakov is good company. He's smart, witty, and quite handsome. She finds that she doesn't mind spending time with him- it's strange.

She doesn't want to harm him.

That's a realization she stumbles across after she has been Natalia Shostakova for two months. She doesn't know why. It's not like she hasn't had to long con nice men before, and she hadn't had a problem with snapping their necks or stabbing them through the heart.

_You don't have to do this anymore._

God, she swears she will kill Hawkeye next time she gets her hands on him. Because she is the Black Widow and the Black Widow doesn't question her orders. ( _The good of all above the good of one. We have no use of a child who cannot follow orders._ )

As Natalia draws Gavril closer to her, with walks in the park and romantic dinners, and the Widow knows that it isn't her who laughs when Gavril makes a joke, it's Natalia who kisses him goodnight, and it's Natalia who is excited at the prospect of seeing him again.

Not the Black Widow because the Black Widow doesn't feel. The Black Widow wants to complete the mission, no matter the cost.

_You don't have to do this anymore._

But she does. This is all she has ever known, all she ever will know. Even if she has doubts, which she certainly does not, wanted to get out and run as fast and as far as she can, which she really doesn't, it's not like there is anything else for her. She kills for the motherland. She follows her orders. She regrets nothing in the service of her country.

_You want to understand, you pretend you understand, you rationalize everything and think that the answer is there somewhere, you just can't find it._

But she knows he's incorrect.

She does. Really.

* * *

"I want you to meet my daughter," he says suddenly.

It's been about three months since she became Natalia. She and Gavril have seen each other nearly every day for those three months. This night, he is picking her up for a performance of Faust at the Théâtre Graslin. Nantes is an hour away, so they'd made arrangements to meet early, but she hadn't been expecting this to be the intent.

The Widow was waiting for this. She was expecting it. ( _No, no, no_ ) She'd perfectly drawn him into her web of deceit and she was drawing ever nearer to accomplishing her goal ( _their goal_ ).

This is integral. The fastest way into his heart, to the information she requires, is through his daughter.

The suggestion hasn't been brought up out of the blue. The past few weeks, he'd been talking about wanting Natalia and his daughter to meet each other. She knows what this means- she knows him as well as she's known any of her marks- that he's making plans for the future. And Natalia Shostakova is included in that future.

"Really?" Natalia asks, hope and apprehension in her eyes. "I... what if... she doesn't like me?"

Gavril smiles. "She's an amazing girl, Natalia, and you are an amazing woman. Trust me, she'll like you."

The Widow playacts looking down, laughing shortly, breathlessly. "Flatterer," she finally responds. "I'm just nervous."

Natalia lets Gavril do most of the talking on the way to his house, and she focuses on distancing herself. He lives in a rather large home, larger than most doctors would live in ( _because his deceased wife was the heiress of an immense fortune amassed by her parents' large corporation_ ). There are no neighbors in eye-shot, just rural land, rolling green fields interrupted by trees for miles in each direction ( _both Gavril and his wife had grown up in heavily populated urban areas and wanted a change_ ). A long brick driveway leads to the brilliant mansion, with well-tended white lilies spaced evenly on each side of the drive ( _they were his wife's favorite flower and he hires gardeners to make sure they are cared for_ ).

These facts are meaningless to her. Yes. This is all a part of the mission. He didn't personally confide in her any of those things. She regrets nothing in the service of her country, after all.

He leads her inside with a grin that breeds nervous excitement within her, no, Natalia, in _Natalia._

The large doors open to a high-ceiling, circular foyer, with a floating staircase following the curve of the wall to the second floor and an arching doorway to further rooms on the ground floor. "Lucille?" Gavril calls out the name of his daughter's nanny, knowing she will bring the child with her. Instead of the older woman appearing, a small girl with delicate blond curls races around the corner of the doorway.

She's so young, the Widow knows she's nearly three. He calls her _ma jolie fleur_. My pretty flower. She calls him Daddy with the toothiest, happiest grin any child could muster.

Gavril steps forward, the widest and brightest of smiles on his face, kneeling down to greet his daughter, while the Widow freezes by the door. She feels clammy and like her stomach is swimming as she looks on, telling herself its all in character. It's how Natalia feels, so she feels it too. It's not actually the Black Widow who is taking a deep calming breath as Drakov tells his little girl very seriously that he has someone important he would like for her to meet.

He stands, with his daughter's hand in his, opening up so that he no longer stood between Natalia and the young girl. She practically buries herself in her father's pant leg like most children do when they're introduced to a stranger. "This is Natalia. Remember when I told you about her? She is very special to me," Gavril explains gently, shooting the Widow a reassuring smile.

 _Natalia_ swallows heavily again, cramming the nervousness away deep within herself. She copies Gavril's earlier motions, dropping to the floor heedless of the expensive, floor-length dress she wears. "Hello," she greets gently, glad for the fact that she was actually able to manage word. Her throat was tight with something she doesn't put a name to, ignores it like an ugly wound that will heal with time.

The child seems to shed some of her shyness with the greeting, leaving the safety of being close to her father to come towards the Widow. "It's nice to meet you," the girl says, somewhat stilted, robotically, as if she'd been practicing. She knows Gavril was born in Russia, still speaks with a slight accent, but his daughter sounds all French. True to the prediction, she looks up, asking, "Did I do it right, Daddy?"

Gavril had told Natalia his daughter was a very advanced talker, but she hadn't expected such coherency.

"That was very good, but you still have to shake her hand, _ma fluer_ ," Gavril reminds her.

Her mouth dropped into that O of surprise and she looks a little sheepish that she'd forgotten. She sticks a hand out eagerly, now with a smile and looking directly at the Black Widow.

The Widow _does stay calm_ on the inside while Natalia takes her hand. Ignoring how foolish she must look, shaking hands with a child, The Widow notices how much she looks like her father. "It's very nice to meet you, too."

The handshake is over, and the Widow is still on the ground, and Natalia is the one wondering if this situation is about to turn awkward, what she should do now, does she ask questions, does she wait for the kid to instigate, what is she supposed to do.

She doesn't have to wonder for very long. "Are you going to be my new mama?"

It feels like a sinkhole sporadically formed in her intestines.

Gavril's little girl doesn't stop: "Daddy misses mama but he is happy when he talks about you. So are you?" At least she'd been straightforward about it.

She can't afford to contemplate. Can't afford to think of anything else other than how to respond to that. She can see Gavril considering interceding, considering pulling the plug on this little meet and greet, to save Natalia from this huge question, but she doesn't let him. It's for the mission when she answers, "I hope so. Someday. If your Dad thinks it's okay."

She giggles with delight. "I don't remember mama much but you're pretty and Daddy smiles more now and I think we should be friends."

A smile forms on her face without her meaning for it to. "I'd like that very much." For the mission.

* * *

"Scale of one to ten, how did that go?" The Widow asks, trying to make herself cool and calm on the inside. Douse the licking fire of whatever is inside her. She also feels the beginnings of a headache, which she is not in the mood to deal with. She needs to focus, stay on task. This is an integral part of the plan. ( _We have no use of a child who cannot follow orders._ )

Gavril just keeps on smiling, with his eyes on the road. "Twelve."

She knows what he's thinking. That his life is finally coming back together. He's finally healing, getting over the pain of his wife's death, looking towards the future instead of remaining stuck in the past. He's happy again for the first time in a long time, and that thought makes the Widow sick to her stomach.

He's in love with Natalia and Natalia is an illusion. An illusion meant to trick, fool, deceive him into giving her information.

And now his _daughter_.

She looks forward to the opera. She won't have to think about it for a few hours. However, she still has the hour-long trip to Nantes to fill with Natalia's happy, excited chatter.

The Widow puts on a look of guarded hope. "Twelve? Are you serious?"

"Of course. Natalia, my daughter is lovely, but she is normally very shy and withdrawn." He chuckled a bit uncomfortably, "Sorry about the interrogation via two-year-old, but it's been a long time since I've seen her open up the way she did to you."

The Widow swallows, tells herself it's in character. "I-I doubt it was me. I mean, she's so young, and you were there and she might have wanted to make you happy and I..." she trails off.

"Natalia," Gavril says gently, but the Widow doesn't let him finish. _It's what Natalia would do_.

"I'm sorry, it's just that I don't know anything about kids, and I let it scare me." _It's what Natalia would say._

He took a hand off the wheel and placed it comfortingly on one of hers. "You learn fast." He quickly amended, "Only if you want to. I don't want to force you into anything, but Natalia, I can't lie to you and say if you don't want to be a part of my daughter's life, we can just keep going with what we have. I really care about you and I want you to be a part of my life, but I love my daughter."

"I understand, and I..." the words are catching in her throat, her eyes burning and she swears she can feel her pulse in her head, and her head hurts because she wants to say _no run get away from me I am poison I kill everything I touch can I even have a soul? No, no I can't_ but then there's her life, her training, reminding her of her mission. _The good of all above the good of one. We have no use of a child who cannot follow orders. We must never disappoint our country. Your talents cannot be wasted on normalcy. Love is for children._

* * *

"I want to be a part of your life, too."

The rest of the car ride was uneventful, the Widow _only listening_ to Natalia and Gavril prattle on about insignificant things. They arrive at Théâtre Graslin, the beautiful opera house lit up even as evening descends. The square structure, clean, with the white marble columns at the entrance make it look almost courtly, but certainly like it belongs in a bygone era. Banners hang just above the doors behind the pillars, grand, sweeping things that elegantly proclaim that the opera company is performing their rendition of the Charles Gounod classic.

She and Gavril make their way through the throngs of people, drawing their fair share of appreciative looks.

_What a lovely couple._

If only they knew.

They finally locate their seats on the ground level, and the Widow tries to settle into the lush jade fabric, tightens and loosens her muscles in an old relaxation technique, but still unable to quell the unsettled feelings within her. She tries to appreciate the opulence they're surrounded with- the large stage framed in gold carvings, the same designs imitated throughout the theater on each balcony, all the way up to the soaring ceiling, done in typical religious iconography with angels upon clouds, and several scenes depicted within.

Natalia and Gavril have a hushed conversation about the opera house's restoration until it finally begins.

With the lights darkened and the spotlights on the actors, the Widow hopes that maybe, just maybe, she can lose herself for a little while in the story. She can hope.

While she was still being educated, they were sure to include teaching her relevant literature and plays, along with operas. Faust was an assignment then, something she had to do for them, and she didn't mind it. Wanted their approval then so badly she'd kill anyone for them.

She enjoyed Faust more than some of the others. Romeo & Juliet was shallow and pedantic. War and Peace was longer and denser than hell, as was Les Miserables. Anything by Vonnegut was just plain insane. But Faust was simple, to the point in her eyes.

The protagonist was a man named Faust, who'd dedicated his life to learning, and didn't realize he'd missed out on life until he was an old man. After trying to kill himself twice, he curses faith and science and prays to a more infernal side. Méphistophélès appears, and gives him back years of his life in exchange for his soul.

The Widow remembers, but she never saw it in action. She read the words on a page, not acted out on a stage. She can appreciate the skill and mastery of the craft as Méphistophélès tempts Faust with the image of Marguerite, the actor's voice strong and with a dark, almost seductive quality.

One thing a young Black Widow could never understand was the seduction. Why would a woman willingly go to a man's arms like that? Why would she fall for such a trick? She knows she's special, but it seems like even common women would balk at the thought of having sex.

As the actress playing Marguerite belts out the famous 'Jewel Song', the Black Widow still doesn't fully understand. Under the watchful eye and malevolent laughter of Méphistophélès, it's clear Marguerite will be seduced by Faust.

The Black Widow almost feels cheated for Marguerite when the next act comes, and the woman has been impregnated and abandoned by Faust. She almost feels cheated for Marguerite when her brother comes home and after a fight with Faust, is killed and with his dying breath damns her to Hell. She almost feels all these things, but she doesn't. Certainly not.

In the final act, after Marguerite has killed her child and gone insane, Faust and Méphistophélès come to see her. The Widow just barely leans forward in her seat as the brilliant actress lays her fate in the hands of God and his angels. _Dieu me perdonne!_ God forgive me. Forgive her crimes, her sins.

_Sauvée!_

The blast of sound that greets her leads to a look of shock, delight, and awe swim together on Marguerite's face. As she looks heavenward, towards the host of angels and their choral, sweet voices singing as one, Widow can't ignore the tightness in her throat.

_Christ est ressuscité!_

_Christ vient de renaitre!_

Redemption. Despite her terrible actions, Marguerite is saved in the end. Forgiven.

The opera ends, and the Widow is numb to it as she stands and gives her applause, the look of peace and happiness on the saved face of Marguerite stuck in her mind.

( _You don't have to do this any more._ )

* * *

Micheal Fisher III (yes, he is a third) is generally ambivalent about working for SHIELD. The only reason they hired him in the first place is because they couldn't control him or keep him out of their computerized archives, so it had been a boost to his hacking ego that this shadowy government organization couldn't hold him down. Really appealed to his authority issues. And then once he started working for them (hey, they have awesome health benefits, plus dental, nice paycheck, and then there's the perks of being in on the biggest secret since the location of Amelia Earhart's plane) he began to realize there was no getting out. Also, after casually associating with a trained assassin there was the realization that they could have for sure just killed him for being too big a nuisance. Kill 'em or use 'em.

So, here he is working for the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division and being thankful his sweet bacon wasn't shot or burned or at the bottom of the ocean or whatever. Tracking people down so they can be killed. Well, they don't say that kind of stuff out loud, but Fisher knows. In fact, he tried to hack into the serious files that would tell him all about that stuff, but damn, whoever designed that inner system is a genius. He probably could eventually get into it, given a day or two, but hey. Assassins. No thanks.

Anyway. There's the whole killing people thing. He's not entirely cool with it, but jeez, if its them or him... also he's pretty sure the people they go at are like, war criminals or mass murders or something.

But you know, under all the hacking and casual stealing from Mitt Romney's personal accounts to donate to Planned Parenthood and the occasional friendly porn spam sent to George W. Bush's personal computer and his own mission to see what the hell actually goes on in Area 51, he's a pretty good guy. He likes to think so, anyway. His string of angry exes would likely tell different stories, but Fisher is a 'to each their own' kind of guy.

Fisher never hears Hawkeye enter a room. He's only heard if he wants to be. This is one of the times he wants to be heard. "Heyo, Birdman," Fisher greets without turning from his computer, because seriously, who else could it be? Fisher called him here, anyway.

"Hey Fisher. What's up? Find anything?" Agent Barton inquires.

"Let's wait for the Coulsonator before we get started."

They don't have to wait long. Barton's handler walks in only moments after, saying, "Fisher, I didn't expect to hear from you so soon. Do you have more on the Widow?"

"Not exactly. Are either of you aware of the informant?"

"That's a very broad question. SHIELD had a wide network of informants," Coulson answers.

"I mean the giant, ace-in-the-hole informant the World Security Council has been getting nearly all of it's leads on the Red Room from. That informant." The one whose identity Fisher can't pull because he doesn't have the security clearance for it. Freaking government organizations. Damn them.

Hawkeye looks a bit bamboozled by the news, but Coulson looks only vaguely surprised. "I'd been told there was a possible lead in terms of extracting information from a civilian, but I wasn't aware of anything beyond that."

"Well, thanks for that update, Coulson. Anything else you didn't mention?" Agent Barton asks with so much sarcasm Fisher even feels slapped by it.

The senior agent shoots the assassin a look. "Later, Agent."

Barton looks like he wants to complain, but Fisher launches into his next spiel before any more fireworks can launch between those two. " _Any_ way, if this person knows intimate details about the Red Room program, maybe they can suss out where the spider lady is laired up. Even if they don't, they could give us some clues about where to look next."

"Sounds worthwhile to me," offers Hawkeye.

Fisher doesn't understand why the tension sudden ramps up between the two of them at that moment. As long as he's known the two of them, they've had an easy, friendly repertoire, and were much closer than other agent-handler relationships he'd observed.

They don't seem outright hostile towards one another, but there is definitely an elephant in the room that Fisher is entirely unaware of.

Coulson gives him directions to start digging up whatever he can on the informant while he in all his professionally suited glory would seek the information through official channels.

They leave Fisher to his work after that.

Outside 48I, Coulson looks like he is going to just walk away, but Clint's not having it. He steps right in front of his handler, doing his best to not be pissed. "When were you planning on telling me about the intel of the mark I've been after for years?"

Phil sighed deeply before answering, "Barton, I had barely more information that you did. I also didn't want to tell you and have it turn out to be a dud."

"Are you sure that's the only reason?" Hawkeye challenges.

Coulson's posture tightens up considerably, taking on a more defensive stance with his arms cross over his chest. "Why are we still discussing this? I thought we agreed to disagree."

"We did, but it's obviously still an issue, so don't you think we should do a little conflict resolution? I know how much you love that."

The comment pulls a little smile from Coulson and Hawkeye is relieved and glad that their comfortable repertoire hadn't been entirely decimated. "Barton, I'm going to tell you the position you've put me in. Will you promise me you will listen and not interrupt?"

"I'll do my best, chief," Agent Barton replied with a mock salute.

One affectionate eyeroll later, Coulson begins, his voice hushed even in the deserted hall, "I've lied on report after report about that day because I trust you and your judgement. SHIELD has been after the Black Widow for nearly four years. She has killed an estimated eight hundred fifty seven people, and those are just the ones we know about. We know next to nothing about her behavioral patterns save that she's an attack dog- she goes where her superiors point her. I'm not finished," Coulson intones when it looks like Hawkeye is going to interrupt him. "She's a very dangerous, unknown entity who is one of very few targets SHIELD has who have earned Black priority, which you know means take out at all costs. I'm still not finished, Barton. You had a Black priority target in your crosshairs, and you let her go because of a gut feeling that if you did, she'd flip and come to you. That hasn't happened yet, which tells me that you were wrong. I can forgive that- what I can't forgive is your irrationality about not taking her out now.

"I know you see parallels to your life," Coulson continues, "Trust me, I see them too. But there is a fundamental difference- you are a good person. You were basically a desperate kid who got swept up in something he should never have been involved in. We don't know what she is, but we know that she is dangerous and that she's still killing. That alone should be enough to convince you to pull the trigger... Look, it's in the past, so we need to look towards the future. One that will include the Black Widow in a body bag, and I know that's not the outcome you wanted, but at least we can be grateful we have you, you know? At least we got you. And I know how much you try but... You just can't save everyone, Clint."

Another time Phil's called him Clint. It highlights the poignancy of his friend's words as they slowly sink in. He has a lot to say about what Phil just said, and wants to refute the claims. But, strictly speaking, he doesn't have much evidence to go on. All he has is her breakdown in the alley, the fact that she didn't kill him, and dear hope. It's not what he wants, not what he'd prayed for, but it's what he has and Clint Barton is adaptable.

After a lengthy silence, Hawkeye simply responds, "I know." He sounds like he doesn't want to believe it.

* * *

Her days are full.

At first, it's little visits. Gavril always accompanies her, like a fallback buffer when she flounders with learning how to deal with the girl, how to sit at a tea party with tea and biscuits made out of playdough, how she likes to dress and eat and play, how to strap her into the carseat when they go places, how to deflect her complaints and worries and answer the ones she can.

It's all new to the Black Widow, whose life has consisted of training. Learning to fight and fuck and kill and interrogate and take pain and come through on the other side smiling. Learning that she regrets nothing in the service of her country, that the good of all comes before the good of one, fighting for justice and peace and the motherland.

Now it's different. Going to the park. Learning about appreciating little things like blowing dandelion seeds, and how it seems like hope, the small, parachuted seedlings taking flight from a dying stalk.

She wonders if this is what other childhoods are like.

She doesn't remember smiling and laughing and playing and having fun. She remembers pain and sacrifice and the constant pressure to be the best.

Here, there is none of that. None of the fear that she tried so hard to ignore and even convinced herself wasn't there it was compressed in her mind like a firework waiting to explode. No _go faster_ , no _be the best_ , no _we have no use of a child who cannot follow orders_.

It's simple and peaceful and _she likes it_. Tries to remind herself it's an illusion.

She likes not having to seduce and playact. Because with Gavril ( _he's Gavril now, not a mark, not a target, not Dr. Drakov, he's Gavril_ ) there's not the constant threat of having to fake her way through an orgasm she's never felt, not the constant threat of having to endure the pain of intercourse.

Because whether she wants to be or not, she's comfortable with this life she now has. _Tries to remind herself it's just an illusion._

Feeling crisply the sharp pang of worry of hearing a child ( _her child_ ) crying out in surprised pain when she falls off her bike. Trying to regret the motherly concern when she says _I told you to ride in the grass!_ and hiding exasperation when the little girl replies _You have to pedal harder, I didn't want it to be hard._ Building pillow and blanket forts because that's what her kid wants to do.

Waking up lazily in Gavril's bed, not worrying that he'll force himself onto her at any second and having to pretend she wants it too. Listening to him tell her she's beautiful, she's smart, he loves her and she doesn't expect the warmth that comes with the words.

The Black Widow gets to be a person again. She can't remember when she last did that. ( _blue eyes carrying her back to her room let me do this one good thing_ ) Years of conditioning don't fall away, they just become quieter. She thinks in the back of her mind that there is only one way this can end- in blood and pain and violence.

But the Widow doesn't listen. She stops reminding herself it's an illusion.

It's been six months since she became Natalia, three months since she made his home hers, one month and three weeks since she started being called Mama, two weeks since Gavril proposed to Natalia and Natalia said yes when she finds what she's looking for.

( _Without emotion, there is no conflict._ )

( _Love is for children._ )

That's when she knows it's all over.

* * *

"We going to tell Fisher?" Hawkeye asks, Coulson leading him into an empty conference room. "I mean, the guy's been pretty integral in this whole process."

"I wish we could. If he had the clearance, I would, but there's a reason Fisher couldn't get into this guy's file," he answers. And he does, really. Fisher's a good guy and an even better hacker, but he got this file 'on loan' from Fury and judging by his superior's behavior whilst handing it over, it hadn't been easy to come by. That usually means play by the rules, no matter how much they don't want to.

Damn World Security Council.

"Okay, lay it on me. Who is it?" the younger man asks.

The manila file folder is nothing special, pretty thin, actually, just a few pieces of paper. Doesn't exactly scream national security, but if the info is good, it could come delivered via brown paper bag and Clint would be happy with it. Phil places it on the table in front of the two of them, flips it open.

"Informant's name is Dr. Gavril Drakov," Phil informs. The man pictured is handsome, and much younger than Barton had assumed. "He worked for the Red Room's medical division, designing some of the protocols to be used on the subjects. According to him, he didn't know exactly what his research was being used for, only developed the experiments and treatments and didn't implement them, and when he found out what was going on, he left immediately."

"I'm guessing the Red Room doesn't take to kindly to dissenters, especially those who then flip and spew all the info," Barton observes.

"You're correct. I imagine he's a very high priority target for them. Since he's still alive last time the Council checked in, I'm guessing they haven't found him, because if they did, they would have the Black Widow on him in a matter of hours."

Barton broods, flipping through the pages silently. _Country of Residence: France. Exact location redacted for safety of informant. Next of kin: daughter. wife (now deceased). Names redacted for safety of informant._ "Can we get Fisher on intel without telling him who the guy is?"

Coulson thinks on it for a moment. "I think I can manage that."

"Okay, then. Let's track this guy down."


	23. Drakov's Daughter: Part 3 of 3

_"This is the way the world ends_  
_Not with a bang but a whimper."_

* * *

"Sir, she's breaking through the protocol."

"That shouldn't be possible."

"Her mind is much stronger than we anticipated."

* * *

 

Natalia's day had started like any other. Waking up to the sunlight, no alarms blaring and her internal clock silent; Gavril's sleepy smile as he wakes, and she kisses him because she can and she knows he likes it; her morning run, enjoying the way the morning dew still wets the grass, the crisp morning air invigorating her lungs; walking in to breakfast with Gavril and his daughter ( _she doesn't even stave off the pangs of_ our daughter _any more_ ); dropping off the little blonde girl at a friend's house, waving goodbye and hearing 'See you later, Mama' in return.

When she returns, she finds Gavril nowhere in the immediate vicinity. She sheds her shoes at the door and drops the car keys in the bowl, calling his name. She goes off in search of him, hoping maybe they can go for a movie or a lunch date or something equally frivolous. She knows that he enjoys those kinds of things.

He's nowhere to be found on the ground floor and he's not responding to her calls, so she heads upstairs. His office is the first door on the left.

She doesn't bother knocking, because he's rarely in there anyway.

The misfortune of finding him would haunt her for a very long time.

She still wonders what her life might have been like if she had just skipped the office. Maybe delayed getting home by stopping at the gym to work off the excess frustration she had from not fighting on a regular basis. Stopping for something as stupid as coffee or groceries. She might never have found this.

She opens the door to see Gavril facing his computer, talking through webcam to what looked like a small group of people. It's that moment when the creeping dread falls over her. It's over.

It's all over.

Reality smacks her awake, reminds her that it _is_ an illusion. And she's been deluding herself the entire time.

She is the Black Widow.

It takes them a moment to notice her, and when they do, Gavril halts his words about the human brain's chemistry and alterations to it and turns back to look at her.

"What are you doing?" she asks, not sounding at all dreadful of what was to come, _what she always knew had to come_.

His eyes dart to hers, apology and acceptance and even a touch of eagerness in his face. "Talia, honey, can you wait outside for one second?"

She knows. She knows exact what this is.

_Mission parameters: 0-9 months. Conclusion is execution of tertiary target. See attached for details regarding execution; of utmost importance execution is completed within parameters._

_Objective: Intelligence leak discovered. Target is former associate. Discover to whom intelligence is being given._

_Target: DR GAVRIL DRAKOV see attached for description/most recent photograph on file_

_Tertiary Target: NEXT OF KIN, daughter, name unknown, description unknown. Details must be uncovered in the duration of the mission._

"Sure." Fights the urge to gag.

Feels the urge to run.

Splitting headache as she recedes to the hall.

No, she will stay and she will do her duty because they have no use of a child who cannot follow orders. She is the Black Widow.

A few minutes later ( _it feels like an eternity_ ) Gavril emerges, acceptance writ all over his body language. He's silent a beat, just standing before her with his eyes on the ground. He finally raises them up to meet hers. She hopes she looks appropriately confused, hiding the storm within her. "I've been meaning to tell you this for a really long time."

She knows. She knows she knows she knows exactly what he's going to say ( _Intelligence leak discovered_ ) but she's hoping against hope that she's wrong ( _Conclusion is execution of tertiary target_ ). "Tell me what?" Still praying she's wrong, one of her migraines picks up again, badly enough that her eyes feel like they're pulsating in time with her quickening heartbeat; she places her fingertips against her temple, trying in vain to relieve the pain.

Gavril looks concerned. "We really should get those looked at," he suggests.

She shakes her head as though the motion doesn't hurt, puts on a smile. "No, I'm okay. Just... tell me what you were going to say?" She thinks the pain lessens, but it might just be her imagination.

He lets out a long sigh, as if telling her will be the final weight off his shoulders. "Several years ago, I was employed by this... institute that was dedicated to behavioral and brain science. I was conducting research on how the brain produces emotions, how it makes decisions. I thought I was doing good work... but then, I-I found out it wasn't a research institute at all."

She swallows hard against the urge to gag. "What was it?" she manages to ask steadily.

"It was a military organization called the Red Room that was specializing in making spies. Natalia, they were using my research to perfect mind control."

"What?" her voice is choked. ( _Do you know what the Red Room was, Widow? Do you know what they did to you in there?_ )

Gavril looks ashamed. "I know I should have told you, and I'm so sorry, but what I'm doing is huge."

No. Don't tell me. Get your daughter and run. I am dangerous. I am so, so dangerous. "And what exactly are you doing?"

"There's this... global peace-keeping organization. They're called the World Security Council. They contacted me about what I did. They told me if I told them everything I did that I could make up for what I had done! And it's not for much longer, I'm almost done giving them all that I know... Natalia, please understand. They're helping me fix what I caused!" Her silence sounds damning, but inside she is screaming. "Natalia, please, just say something."

This is it.

The objective of her mission is complete.

She knows what she must do now.

She can feel the compulsion to complete the mission radiating through her body like the flip of a switch, the instinct to kill firing back to life without any indication that she hadn't done it for so long.

But more than anything, she doesn't want to follow through, feels like she _can't_ follow through. No, she won't she won't _she won't_ because she loves them, loves what she has here.

Doesn't she? She knows its love, doesn't she?

But she _has_ _to_ , it's what she was trained for, what she was _made_ for.

She has nothing outside of them. She is loyal to the motherland.

_We have no use of a child who cannot follow orders._

_Failure is not an option._

_Love is for children._

* * *

 

A sigh of relief. "The protocol is still intact."

"So the mission will be completed within the parameters?"

"Yes, sir."

* * *

 

Hopelessness is a unique feeling. She has never experienced it before- she has always had faith in herself, that she will be able to get out of any situation she finds herself in without too much difficulty.

But here she is now. She put herself here.

Again. ( _Blue eyes and death and dying and please no and fire and screaming and You don't have to do this shit anymore and yes I do_ )

She should have known.

She did know, so why does this feel like she's been stabbed in the back and punched in the gut all at once?

It's Wolf all over again. ( _Let me do this one good thing._ )

She let herself get attached, and now she's paying the price.

Paying the price with the excruciating pain in her head, with the pounding of her heart that feels like it decays in her chest while she still lives, with the feeling of her organs dead and dying inside of her, with her lungs struggling to take a full breath.

She excuses herself, says she needs to process this.

Gavril understands, _of course he does,_ so she goes; down the stairs and out the door is the closest thing to freedom she can get right now.

And she runs. She feels like lying down and never getting back up, but instead she runs because what else can she do?

She knows she'll come back. Knows she'll complete the mission. What else can she do?

She's not wearing shoes, and the gravel digs into her dance-calloused feet. She doesn't feel it. She idly wonders if she'll ever feel anything ever again.

Because there was never a family here for her. There was never Natalia. There was never Mama. There was never happiness here. Only ghosts of things that wished they could be.

Now the ghosts are gone and the Black Widow can see.

She will eliminate the target.

No matter how many times the target has called her Mama.

* * *

 

It isn't until night falls that she finds her way back.

Gavril waited up for her because he is just that sort of man.

The Black Widow sees this a weakness. Weakness. Yes. He comes up to her, rubbing her arms because oh my god, Talia, honey, you're freezing! Where have you been? Oh god, what happened to your feet? He tries to tell her to sit, let him treat the wounds she still doesn't feel.

She tells him she's tired, that she's sorry she ran off, she forgives him. He kisses her.

She doesn't cry. Her eyes burn and she knows she probably should if she was normal but she has never been normal ( _You have the privilege of being special_ ).

She sits stiffly, lets him look at her feet. They're not bad, he tells her. He won't even need to wrap them. Just be sure that you give them a good soak when you shower, okay?

Okay. She does what he says, and at some point in the shower she begins to feel the burn of the water and the stinging of her feet. She hisses, feels and remembers the pain with startling clarity.

_Failure is synonymous with torture._

And she will not fail.

She gets out and dries herself, not letting herself think. _Justice and peace justice and peace justice and peace._

After she gets dressed, she hears a high pitched call of Mama, Mama come read me a story!

For a terrifying second she can't breathe, feels like the wind was knocked out of her. But the Black Widow still replies, "Yeah, sure sweetie, I'm coming. Just give- give Mama a second." She falls to the floor before the toilet, feeling like she could retch but the action not coming.

_Details of target execution: (cont'd from pg. 1) slit throat with knife; any household knife that is readily available will do; make sure primary target cannot interrupt proceedings; he must find tertiary target in order for tactic to be effective; use blood spilled to paint message on wall; message must read in Cyrillic: You dare defy us?; make sure message is legible; do not inquire about message meaning/purpose; keep scene clean except for the blood; you must leave premises directly following taking care of the tertiary target_

She gathers herself together. Goes down to the kitchen, says she is getting a glass of water.

The knife she selects is small, easily hidden. A paring knife, she knows it is called ( _because she killed someone with one once. That's how she knows. She is the Black Widow._ ) Tucked into the pocket of her pajama pants, it can't be seen. But the Widow feels it.

She walks up the steps. Gravity seems to increase with each step she takes toward the bedroom.

She door creaks as it opens. It always does and Gavril has been meaning to fix it.

"Mama! Can we read this one?" She holds a big picture book in her hands: A Fish Out of Water. Her favorite. A ridiculous story about a fish that is given too much food and starts growing and growing until it doesn't even fit in a swimming pool anymore. Stupid, really.

She manages a smile, denies to herself that there is any fondness there, "Of course, baby girl. Anything for you."

She sits down on the bed so that the little girl can cozy her back up to Widow's torso. Widow's shin rests on the little blonde head. And she begins to read. "'This little fish,' I said to Mr. Carp. 'I want him. I like him. And he likes me. I will call him Otto.'" She flips through each page, pointing out each word.

It's something they've done for so long, so many times. She knows A Fish Out of Water by heart, could recite it without a single prompt. There is so much trust here, Drakov's daughter cuddling up to her torso, and the Widow doesn't know how she can...

"Why did he do that?" the little girl interrupts. Even though she's read the book so many times, the enigma of how the boy could feed Otto more food than Mr. Carp had told him to continued to confound her. "Mr. Carp told him he can't feed him more than a spot!"

"He thought Otto looked sad, remember? He didn't want Otto to be sad." With that, she kept reading

The Black Widow feels the child laughing against her. "Look at Otto! He's too big for that! Not even the tub can hold him!"

"Yeah," she manages in reply, "that's one big fish."

She can feel the knife in her pocket, waiting. Wanting the blood.

She knows she should want it.

She doesn't even try to want it.

The Black Widow does not want to kill.

I am theirs before I am mine ( _How can you say your life does not have meaning_ )

Justice and peace ( _Let me do this one good thing_ )

Failure is not an option ( _The small act of defiance shining in her mind_ )

Taking a life is like target practice ( _I'm not heartless_ )

You don't have to do shit like this anymore

The book is finished and she sets it off to the side of the bed.

Neither woman nor child make any moves to disentangle.

Her hand shakes as it closes around the knife. She slides it out of her pocket. She clutches it so hard in her hand it feels as though the handle is the blade. She should paint the walls with her own blood instead. She wishes she could.

"Can you sing to me?" the little girl asks.

For the first time she can remember, the Black Widow weeps. Really and truly weeps. Not crying, not sobbing. Not tears born of shock and anger or even sadness. It's a weeping that only one who has experienced true despair can understand. "Of course, love." The tears don't stop, and they make her voice wobble just a little; there's that catch in her breath that means tears, there's the burn in her eyes that means tears. She doesn't know any songs, and she doesn't know where she gets the words or the melody as she begins the song, "Even the fairy tale goes to bed, so you could dream of it at night. Close your eyes, Bayu-bay... In the tale you can ride the moon and gallop at full speed over the rainbow, make friends with a little elephant and catch a feather of the Firebird.

"Close your eyes, Bayu-bay... Bayu-bay, all people should sleep at night. Bayu-bay, tomorrow is a new day. We got very tired today, let's say to everyone 'Good night', go to sleep. Bayu-bay..."

The little girl sleeps.

The Black Widow raises the knife.

* * *

 

**42 Hours Later**

"So are we clear?"

"Yes, dear. You roll out the welcome wagon and I just follow behind and shut up unless I need to shoot someone. All over it."

"And you can't bring your bow. I want to make that ardently clear."

"Aw, you never let me have any fun."

"The fact that SHIELD lets you carry a bow is because I let you have fun."

"Ah, but now they like the bow too much to let me carry anything else, so it's more like sanctioned fun."

Their van turns into a long driveway flanked by white flowers. Their driver is a new kid (even though Hawkeye is pretty sure he's about the same age as him, at least) with barely even past level four clearance, and who has no idea what he's driving them for. That is essentially why they picked him (he also apparently 'has some promise' according to Coulson. That could mean a lot of things. In Hawkeye's opinion, being kind of on the skinny and gangly side, this Agent Ward doesn't look much. Then again, neither does the Widow. Hell, Hawkeye himself doesn't really either. Appearances are deceiving.)

All in the name of security. It had been enough of a stretch to let Coulson and Hawkeye approach (Fury had apparently had to call in a lot of favors to get them here) so a two-man team driven by a rookie whose knowledge favored 'the less he knows, the safer the op is' it was.

Hawkeye isn't sure what to expect out of the outing. Best case scenario: some answers and useable intel from the man who practically wrote the book on mind control. Worst case scenario: he's dead. Lots of places in-between. Hawkeye is ready for any of them. Well, ready minus his bow.

The pull up to the house, and Agent Ward throws the undercover SHIELD van into park.

"Wait here," orders Coulson tersely.

He nods like a soldier. "Yes, sir."

They exit the van and head for the front door.

The grounds are quiet, save for their feet on the ground and the birds in the trees. Hawkeye's eyes dart about, cataloguing the important information to be garnered by a cursory scan. He was relatively relaxed- they weren't anticipating anything going wrong; the informant was well-hidden if their struggles to even get near him to talk were any indication, but his hand still rested on the gun in his thigh holster anyway. If Hawkeye's extensive career had taught him anything, it was when everything seemed fine and dandy that the mission gets absolutely FUBARed.

"Anything?" Coulson asks quietly as they stand on the front stoop.

"All clear as far as I can see. Which is pretty far."

Coulson probably would've rolled his eyes at that if he was that sort of man. Instead, after an exasperated sigh, he raises his hand and knocks on the door.

"Since when did we become so polite? I mean, knocking on doors. Asking nicely before we question someone."

"The answer to your question is always. You just never got to have a part in this polite side of SHIELD before."

"I can see that. Bringing along an assassin doesn't always scream 'We're here to help you.'"

"Remember what I said about you just sitting back and letting me handle the talking?" Coulson asks. "I think now would be a good time to remember it."

When no one comes to the door, Coulson knocks again. Hawkeye listens closely, and can't even hear the sounds of moving feet within. "Nobody home?" Barton guesses. "Shall we leave a note? That seems very polite, right?"

Coulson's expression drops from his regular-serious to very-serious. "No, something's wrong. According to the information we got from the World Security Council, they always arrange times for him to be at home so that they can call him. This is one of the blocks of times when he is supposed to be home. He never misses one." They draw their sidearms simultaneously.

Barton is about to move into position to kick in the door, but a look from his handler stops him. Agent Coulson tries the door handle, finding it unlocked.

 _Taking away all my fun_ , Hawkeye thinks, but he knows when to shut his trap when he's on mission with Phil. Also, he can't shake the feeling of seriousness and caution that has suddenly descended.

They step over the threshold, postures humming with tension.

What they find was what they'd feared.

The place was trashed.

The door opens to a hallway that reaches to the back of the house, and all along the corridor pictures are knocked from their moorings, shattered glass litters the floor.

There is a small trail of blood, as though a bleeding wound was smeared along the floor. It is a chaotic pattern, veering across the floor and even onto the wall in some places, and it seems to reach all the way down the length of the hall.

Before they can search out the source of the blood, they need to clear the lower rooms first.

Coulson and Barton split without a word, their movements practiced and fluid, with Barton going right into what looks like a living room (or what is left of it) and Coulson continuing down the hall to another set of doorways.

The living room is a disaster zone. Pictures have been knocked off of shelves and tables and the fireplace and smashed against the hardwood floor, scattering more glass that crunches under his boots. The couch cushions have been ripped open by what looks like knife slashes and aggressive hands, their contents thrown about to join with the glass on the floor. A few floor panels are even missing, gouged out of the floor without even bothering to remove the nails and cast aside. Even several bricks were missing from the fireplace, dug right out of the plaster made to look like concrete.

Someone was obviously looking for something, and did a hell of a thorough job looking for it.

The rest of the rooms on the floor look the same- the dining room, kitchen, bathroom, and sunroom are absolutely ransacked.

Clint and Coulson met up again after clearing their respective rooms at the foot of the staircase, where the blood trail leads up the stairs. There are a few dark smears on the railing and supporting balusters that still stand, as a good number of them were splintered and broken. The smears appear directional- like someone was dragged against their will down the stairs and out the door.

"I don't think anyone's here," Coulson observed.

They had made quite the ruckus, shouting 'clear' at each other as well as their findings. If someone heard them, they are doing a good job of staying quiet and hidden. "Excellent deduction, Watson. Second floor?"

Neither ask for conclusions about the bloodstains yet, but it is on both of their minds. Coulson nods and they head up the stairs together.

The same dead silence greets them, embracing them like an old, unwelcome friend. The blood trail that lead up the stairs abruptly ends a few feet from the first step as though that was where the dragging first began, but that is not the end of the blood. The midday light streams through the windows, the blood darker up here, thicker and easier to see. There are smears on the walls and furniture, droplets seemingly flung onto the walls.

Same as the first floor, they work like a well-oiled machine, wordlessly splitting and clearing rooms once more.

Hawkeye's third room is the master bedroom, and it seems to have been given the same treatment as all the other rooms, slashed pillows, ripped sheets, an upturned mattress, closet doors thrown open and clothes torn from hangers, but there is something amongst the destruction that makes Hawkeye's blood run cold.

A shattered picture frame still standing on the bedside table. There is a small blood stain on it, as though the person had righted the knocked over photograph and run a finger down the side of the frame.

Inside that frame is a photo of the Black Widow. He moves to pick it up, motions slow and measured in disbelief.

For a second, he has to figure out why it doesn't look like her. Logically, he knows it's her- same body type, facial structure, she's even got her hair at it's natural, vibrant red. He figures it out moments later: she's smiling. A genuine smile, born of happiness. It occurs to him he has never seen that expression on her face before.

There are two others in the photo- the informant, Gavril Drakov, whose eyes are positively radiant and his smile is broad and proud; and then there's a little girl who's not looking at the camera, but at the Black Widow like she's never seen anything greater. Like a daughter looks at a mother.

And then he catches a look of the Widow's left hand, hooked around the waist of the informant. Is that a damn engagement ring on her finger? _What. the. hell._

"Coulson! Get in here," Barton calls out, needing Coulson's eyes to confirm what he's seeing here.

Moments later, his handler enters, and Barton knows that look. Phil's found something as well. "Rest of the rooms are clear," Phil confirms. Coulson will share with him momentarily whatever it was he saw, so Hawkeye holds out the frame to him silently.

Phil takes it in his hands, examining it much the way Clint had. A rare look of absolute confusion crosses Coulson's face.

He looks back up, now seemingly more off-balance than he was when he first entered. Phil looks like he's searching for the right words, finally settling on, "You really need to see what's in the kid's room."

Shit. That doesn't sound good.

Coulson replaces the frame. They'll have to call in a team to take care of the house, and they'll bag everything, clean the place up until it shines like a new penny.

So he leaves the photo that rocked them both, and lets Coulson lead him down the hall to the room.

The door is painted white and has one of those flowery door signs that has what he assumes is the little girl's name on it.

When he goes in, it looks exactly like your stereotypical little girl's room- walls painted a frightening shade of magenta, stuffed animals littering the floor, a family of half-dressed dolls in the corner, books and the little doodads that every kid refuses to just throw out adorning the shelves.

He begins asking, "What I am looking-" but he cuts himself off when he rounds the door.

There's blood on the wall.

Writing in blood, large letters spelled out above the bed, where a small figure lies unmoving beneath the friendly pink and yellow and white. The message is uneven, flashes of the pink wall seen through the letters, and dripping the way blood tends to do, but it is still legible.

It's in Cyrillic, but he can read it.

_You dare defy us?_

Oh no. No please, _god_ , no.

No, she doesn't kill kids. _She doesn't._

Not up close like this. It sounds heartless to make the distinction but there is a difference when you take a life from a distance rather than up close. Bombing the hospital was a distance kill. This was _personal_ , this was _close_ , and he knows in his gut she doesn't do this.

He prays to any deity, every name of every deity, that he's right. Please, _God, Allah, Vishnu, Krishna, Yahweh, Elohim, Jehova, Huwa, Waheguru, Shiva, Brahma. Please tell me I wasn't wrong._

He strides up to the bed, desperate to prove his own suspicions wrong. He flips back the comforter, trying to remain impassive with whatever he sees.

It's not a body. It's a mass of pillows. Barton nearly sinks to his knees with his relief. His confusion increases threefold when he sees a piece of paper resting next to the mound of pillows.

It is also written in Cyrillic and probably blood, but this one has only one word written.

_Yes._

Barton inhales sharply shock and roughly twenty-six other emotions running amok through him; his eyes widen and return to Phil, begging for some semblance of an explanation.

Agent Coulson appears just as lost. "I examined the room. There doesn't appear to be any other blood in here, not in the quantities it would take to write the message on the wall."

Hawkeye is at a loss for words, so he just asks outright, "What the fuck happened here?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote from T.S. Eliot
> 
> Lullaby is borrowed and translated from Spokoinoi Nochi, Malyshi, a Russian children's show that's been airing since the 1960's. It's on youtube if you want to hear it.


	24. Exit Wounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. I hope this chapter is worth it.
> 
> Also, there seems to be some concern about me either abandoning this story and/or the planned trilogy, and I can tell you with absolute certainty neither of those things will happen no matter how busy I get. I love this story and my planned arcs way too much to just let them be. So no matter how long it takes me to finish, the trilogy will be completed.

The blood. All the blood. The fear in the girl's eyes.

_Mama what are you doing_

No no no no I didn't do that I couldn't have done that no I left I left I left I failed I left

But if I didn't do that then why do I remember

 _Mama-_ gurgling as her neck opens, blood pouring out like a fountain, spraying on the girl's face, on the Widow's face

She looked betrayed and hurt and scared with the red pouring from her body

_I remember, I remember, please God no_

The blood

The fear

The tears

Warm and wet on her hands

Warm and wet and red

The red making her flesh look white

The red on the walls, the message in the girl's blood

There was so much left over all over the girl and the bed and her hands and her clothes

_use blood spilled to paint message on wall_

_keep scene clean except for the blood_

__must leave premises directly following taking care of the tertiary target_ _

She stripped the bed, so that it almost never happened, burned the sheets with the body in a fire fed by jet fuel, burning so hot nothing would be left

Why why why would she remember

Leaves the note because she is finished, never returning to them if there is just blood and pain

Opens up her own vein and bleeds for that note because nothing can compare to the raging emptiness inside of her

I don't want to remember

She put pillows under the new blankets because standing in the doorway with blood still on her face she could look and play in the illusion that she was just sleeping

Alive

The blood and the choking and the trachea spilling out

Hands shaking

She didn't fail because the Black Widow never fails and failure is synonymous with torture and reeducation and why is she thinking reeducation

Reeducation

She doesn't want reeducation

Because she doesn't fail

She remembers the blood and the tears and the fear and the guilt and the horror because she doesn't fail.

* * *

**Date Unknown**

**Time Unknown**

**Location Unknown**

She is jolted from sleep on a train going through Switzerland. At least that's where she's pretty certain she is. The dry travel magazines in the seat pockets in front of her advertise Swiss tourist attractions. Looking out the windows, she sees pristine, snow-capped blue mountains rising up on the horizon, starkly contrasting against the snow around them, so bright it doesn't seem real. The color contrast between the sky and the mountains and the pure white of the snow hurts her eyes it is so vibrant.

 _How did I get here?_ For the second time in her life, she awakens in a place she does not know. But somehow this second time feels different. It feels like she put herself here. She can remember the sensation of lowering herself onto this seat, the smell of the train station, but they don't feel like full memories. More like deja vu, or something she heard about in a story so long ago that she's confused other memories with her own.

What she does know is that she ran from them. She finished her mission and ran. Disobeyed her mission directive, despite everything in her telling her to _stop,_ _go back, obey, justice and peace, we have no use of a child who cannot follow orders_ but she doesn't want to follow their orders any more if it means killing more people she loves.

She raises her head up off of the seat, immediately overwhelmed by an intense wave of pain through her head. She hadn't been imagining the pain in her eyes. She grits her teeth slightly, but keeps her head raised. Usually sitting up for long enough would make the headaches subside.

She knows how to run. She doesn't know how to grieve.

Because that's what she should be doing. Grieving. That's what one does when one kills the closest thing she has to a child.

She remembers it, too sharp and agonizing like squeezing her hand around a shard of shattered glass, harder and harder despite the blood and the pain. Remembers it like a bright white sun against a black sky, like pain and heat and... _no._

She should be scolding herself, handing herself over for reeducation because that is her duty to the motherland as painful and horrifying that is, but she isn't. Doesn't feel as compelled to follow the pull of how she was raised, what she knows she should be doing.

So she's running away.

_You don't have to do this shit anymore._

For the first time, she starts to believe his words.

She tries to not imagine Gavril's face, finding the blood and no body and her gone and- no. No.

She won't live on their terms any more. She'll be on her own.

That scares her. She doesn't know how to live without them. She doesn't know what she is without the motherland. Her entire life had been about them, pleasing them, doing what she needs to be the best, her next mission. All she knows now is that she needs to leave, run, get away, far and fast and forever.

Besides the persistent ache behind her eyes, her body _hurts_ like she was tossed around violently, like her ligaments and tendons were ripped from bone and muscle before healing up faster than was normal for even her.

The headache becomes overwhelming, throbbing and pulsating, so much so that her eyes begin to burn hot with the intensity of it. So she leans back and closes her eyes. For once in her life, she wants to sleep, wants the drag of unconsciousness to pull her away from the bright world that she is no longer a part of.

Until her eyes snap open again, hand shooting out and tearing one of the Swiss magazines from the seat pocket.

 _Fear_ grips her like a vise, because there is no way that date can be correct. A misprint, perhaps? No, every magazine she sees has the same date on their shining, glossy covers.

The day she... _left them_ was the third of February. The third.

She knows she's lost time before, periods of a few hours that seem to have simply vacated her brain. Her instructors told her it was _stress_ and how _it can fray your edges long before you're aware of it. You may feel... outside yourself every once in a while._ But they told her if she could master herself, master her body and her subconscious she could _get rid of them_ and she _did._ She swears on her life she did, she hasn't had an episode in years. Those memories had faded somewhat, those jarring moments when she'd realized she was another five hours ahead but couldn't remember what she'd done since that morning, and they came roaring back to the forefront of her mind.

But she has _never_ lost time like this before.

The date on the magazine is _25 February 2004._

* * *

**One Week Earlier**

****February 18, 2004** **

****0900 hours** **

**The Hub, Location Classified**

It had actually been a really slow day when Fisher's day went to shit. He'd been almost considering leaving his workstation (which is highly frowned upon and is a common infraction for him) and going to get a burrito or something in the cafe, because he'd had breakfast like, a whole three hours ago, and peckish is not a good place for him to be.

Then the face trace had pinged. And this is the face trace that SHIELD is running constantly, it is practically written into the coding of the computers to constantly be scanning all digital security cameras in every country (he'd heard they were working on a program upgrade that would, in theory, run the face trace program through any wirelessly accessible camera on the planet. It sounded insane, but he'd seen some insane things working for SHIELD, so he wouldn't put it past them), is always in the background of whatever he's working on, and even when Fisher is off duty it always has at least one set of eyes on it.

The face trace for the Black Widow.

"Holy Christ on a cracker," he breathes, burrito forgotten.

Things were about to get very interesting.

* * *

Of all the ways Hawkeye had thought that SHIELD might find the Widow, a face trace hit in St. Petersburg's Pulkovo Airport was not even on his list. She is boarding a commercial flight to Berlin, Germany with Aeroflot airlines, not even trying to hide from the cameras. She wears dark, heavy clothing, disguising the body beneath, but her face is plainly visible to the cameras. She looks even more wild-eyed and desperate than when he'd last encountered her in South Africa. The images of her face are clear enough that they can discern discoloring across her face, going down the skin of her neck and disappearing beneath the neck of the large hoodie.

The Black Widow is famously good at disappearing into crowds, but this is different. She looks like she has shrunken in upon herself, like even the clothing resting on her skin is too much for her to handle. She has a new cautiousness, a new look of suspicion as her eyes constantly darted about the terminal.

Confused did not even begin to describe Clint's thoughts.

It had been two weeks since the incident in France involving the informant; that case gave them no help, only raising more and more confusing questions. The World Security Council hadn't heard from Dr. Drakov since, but no evidence had been found in the ensuing investigation that he had been murdered. Some of his belongings were gone, which hinted at an escape, but all cars he owned were accounted for, and he hadn't once touched his rather massive bank account. No tickets for trains or airplanes had been purchased using his name or any suspected aliases. Dr. Gavril Drakov was well and truly missing. The case of his daughter, whose name was still redacted from every record, was even stranger. The blood on the wall was a familial match to Drakov's DNA on file, proving that it did indeed come from the girl; while there was certainly a decent amount of it, it wasn't enough to cause her to bleed out. The sheets and mattress were blood free, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. Plastic lining on the mattress could've prevented any blood leakage, and a set of sheets is easily replaced.

The forensics team found a burned patch of ground about one hundred yards from the house, about the right size for a huge bonfire that could have swallowed up the evidence of murder. The arson specialist confirmed that the fire had been fueled by jet fuel, which burns much hotter than straight gasoline, hotter than a cremation oven, and had probably burned everything, likely including the body of the little girl, to ash. They had found a few pieces of spared organic material which were still being analyzed (the burn damage made the work difficult) but forensics didn't think that it would yield any answers.

So far, the bizarre blood trail that made an erratic path from the second floor out the door had no known matches, and further analysis was being done on the unusual nature of some of the cells.

Clint's theory is that it's the Widow's blood. Why there's a dragged trail of it through the house has yet to be explained.

They are back in Intelligence Room 48, with all nonessential agents cleared from the room. Despite the Widow's high-profile status as a Black priority target, the operation to find her is rather small and streamlined, only staffed by the best Communications, Sciences, and Operations agents SHIELD could offer. In all, it totals out at twenty-six people, and twelve of those people are assigned to 48I. Of those twenty-six people, only three are currently occupying the room: Clint, Coulson, and Fisher.

"Can we keep the plane grounded at all? Can she be taken in for extra screening?" Coulson asks urgently.

Fisher is quickly typing out commands into the computer, an intense look of concentration on his face. "The flight took off about fifteen minutes ago." At Coulson's thunderous look, Fisher defends, "Sorry, the face trace isn't the Mario Andretti of software yet."

"Can't we divert them to a different country? Layover, bad weather, terrorist threat, something? We need to get them on the ground."

"See, I'd love to do that for you Coulsonator, I really would, but there are two problems with that scenario. One, most of Aeroflot's planes run on a mostly analog system, meaning I can't even trick them into thinking they need to land. Their lines of communication to flight control are also designed on an analog system. No digital, no Fisher magic. Second, I'm pretty sure the first day of my training they told me continuously not to fuck with Russia. I know that's basically all we've been doing looking for the Spider lady, but pulling out old information on a mostly privatized operation is one thing, and forcing a Russian plane out of the sky because they have someone we want on board is completely another."

Clint hears Phil mutter a curse. "How fast can we scramble an 0-8-4 containment team when she arrives in Germany?" asks Coulson.

"An 0-8-4 containment team? Really? Seems a bit like overkill, even for her," Clint observes. The containment teams are usually reserved for superhuman or other inexplicable occurrences.

"She's good, Barton, you know that. I don't want to risk losing her again because we got cocky and thought we could take her down with the basics."

Clint watches as Fisher keys in a few codes, and answers, "Looks like Germany's available containment teams are stretched really thin at the mo. The soonest an entire fully-equipped team can be mobilized would be at least three hours. The Widow's plane is set to land in two."

"Son of a bitch," Coulson bit out. "What other options do we have?"

"Well, as far as I can tell," Fisher explains, "we could pull a partial 0-8-4 team out of training. We could send in a standard welcome party with extra tactical backup. We could call in local authorities, ask airport security to detain her until further notice."

"None of those sound like very great options," Coulson states. "But since it's all we got, can we request an all of the above?"

"Are you sure, sir?" Barton voices his concern. "Smashing a bunch of teams together because you want the extra manpower doesn't seem like the best idea."

"And why is that, Agent?"

Clint leans forward in his seat, elbows on his knees. "Because the Widow uses chaos to her advantage. She disappears in crowds and riots and we don't see her again. She slips through cracks in your plan without so much as a by your leave. And if she sees a weakness, she'll attack it and create her own opening." He leaned back once more. "If you put a bunch of agents together who've never worked together in their lives, don't know each other's strategies, some of whom aren't even fully _trained_ to be out in the field, she is going to take advantage, and she's going to get away. Again."

Coulson nodded, taking Barton's opinion to heart. "Then what are we supposed to do? Send in a standard and hope for the best? No, I still think that manpower is our best option. Because no matter how good she is, she won't be able to take them all."

Clint bites back the comment he wants to make. "You're the head of this op," Clint says coolly. "I'm just your attack dog. It's your call."

Coulson's mouth tightens, and Clint knows that he'd hit a nerve with the 'attack dog' comment. He is once again reminded painfully they still aren't on the best of terms. "Good to know you're on board," Coulson says, letting the moment slide, but the attitude of the room had shifted substantially. "I'll get in touch with the Berlin branch, let them know we're on our way. How long will it take to requisition a jet? We deserve to be there at least after she's been taken down," Phil says, aiming the last part at Clint, who nods wordlessly.

Fisher answers, "I can have one ready for you out on the runway in five minutes."

* * *

**February 18, 2004**

**1500 hours**

****Berlin, Germany** **

If Clint had the capacity to be childish, he would be saying I told you so at this moment.

However, seeing as how half of the men sent to retrieve the Black Widow are lying dead in the Berlin Tegel Airport and the other half are all manner of injured, incapacitated, and traumatized, Clint has enough decorum to know when it's too fucking soon.

Clint and Coulson had arrived in Germany five hours after their jet had taken off from the Hub. Their last hour has been spent trying to do damage control with the German SHIELD branch, local authorities, the airport, the media which is being held back (barely) by local police and a crime scene perimeter of yellow tape. Well, "they" doing the damage control is a bit generous. Coulson is the one trying to wrangle everything being a hurricane on two legs, while he sends Clint off to _I don't know, investigate, Barton. Do something useful while I try to clean up this shitshow. Fury needs to give me a goddamn raise already. I did not sign up for this._

Barton is simply grateful he doesn't have to deal with all the _people_. The crowds are large, an unsurprising fact considering that they are in one of the biggest airports in Berlin. The airport security as well as the police have cordoned off the area and are trying to contain the crowds and keep the masses from panicking. There are too many to keep track of, though Barton does his best to continually scan. Not to mention Barton's reluctance to deal with a very angry, red-faced agent from the German branch who is currently yelling at Coulson. The only words Clint catches are 'brain the size of a salt grain' and something about fornicating and cow guts.

Yeah. Not his strongsuit.

After some finagling with the airport's head of security and bringing out his badge (which he hasn't done in at least a couple of years. It's a wonder he had it on him in the first place.) Clint is ushered into the security footage room.

He is about to order the room cleared, but decides against it. The more eyes who might be able to spot something the better. Barton is good, but he isn't God. He does however, order the guards still at the video feed station, four men in total plus the security head, to let him operate the video. "Touch anything and I will shoot for your vital organs. Got it?"

His German is strongly American accented but is still accurate, and they all nod, wide-eyed and sufficiently intimidated by him; two of the men even go as far as to put their hands under their chairs.

They've already isolated and saved the footage of the entire attack, so Barton simply opens it and hits the play button.

The video flashes to life, the high-quality digital feed showing a gate in the middle of the terminal. As most airports have, there are huge windows on either side of the gate looking out over the runway. The forces that had gathered to apprehend the Widow had formed a perimeter in the shape of an arc. _They should've diverted it to a corner_ _gate,_ Barton thinks sourly. _Fewer escape routes, more concentrated manpower._ No wonder this had failed. A hastily put together plan with a poorly assembled team. He gritted his teeth, keeping his face neutral.

The Widow had been the first one off the plane. He didn't see any other passengers behind her, so perhaps they'd been holding the rest on the plane until they could successfully capture her.

According to reports, the SHIELD welcome party SWAT team had called out to her, said that if she surrendered without violence, they would take her in peacefully. If not, they were authorized to use lethal force.

During that spiel, the Widow was obviously categorizing what she was facing. Her only cover was two rows of airport gate seating, which she was close to standing between. Some thirty individuals had come to capture or kill her. The 0-8-4 containment team was directly ahead of her, armed and armored to the teeth as was standard for those teams, but even through the video Hawkeye could see their nervousness, the tense way their held their weapons, the sloppy way they lined up in a hollow wedge formation. To her left was the seasoned SHIELD SWAT team, looking much better prepared, formations sharp and members at attention, but Hawkeye knew the presence of the others would throw off their dynamic. Finally, the local police had been to her right, several officers either cockily or ignorantly coming within 10 feet of the deadly assassin with nothing but their handguns, billy clubs, and tasers. He could practically see how this would play out in his mind's eye before it happened.

She held her hands up in surrender, unmoving. The police, as their training dictated, put their weapons down immediately. Someone from the SWAT team screamed at them to keep their weapons raised, but by then, it was too late.

She had covered the few feet between her and the nearest officer in the matter of a few seconds, using her meager cover to the best of her ability. She snapped his arm cleanly at the elbow, taking his gun and using his body as a shield. She backed them towards the windows flanking the gate opening.

The SWAT team began to move forward at the same moment the containment team did, and several of the members collided with one another, the formations turning chaotic as they began to open fire.

The Black Widow had already taken out four of the police officers with clean headshots, still using the broken-armed man as a shield and moving to claim those dropped guns for herself.

With four guns now at her disposal, the man in front of her began to fight back, so a well-placed kick dislocated his knee. She dragged him backwards towards the window as the teams took selective shots to try to fire around her hostage.

She used up every weapon she'd managed to claim, killing fourteen and injuring another ten.

The fire from the heavily-armed teams shattered the window behind her, which had apparently been exactly what she was waiting for. She stowed her weapons, and hurled herself backwards through the window, taking the hostage with her.

From the injuries they've catalogued on his body, Hawkeye guesses that she managed to rotate their positions in the air quickly enough that she landed on top of him on the concrete tarmac below.

"God, this woman is insane," he comments, to himself since he doesn't bother with translating it to German.

He rolls back the recording to play it again.

* * *

"Did you get the footage?"

Hawkeye nods to Coulson, both of them back out at the gate where the bloodbath took place. He holds up a flash drive, "Got it, and planted the virus to erase this entire day from their archives once we leave."

"Good."

The media circus is still running rampant around the scene, people churning like a river current, both trying to get a look at the scene and some simply trying to get past, too busy to pay attention to the drama.

It's really by chance that Barton spots him in the maelstrom. He is facing the scene, carefully avoiding drawing attention to his presence, and is clearly using the commotion to his advantage. None of his physical characteristics are what draw Barton's eyes to him. No, what draws Hawkeye's attention is watching the man remove his dark red windbreaker and flipping it inside out to match the blue jackets of the Berlin Polizei, complete with the crest on the sleeve.

 _Sloppy,_ shouldn't be his first thought, but there it is.

Barton immediately catalogues his physical features- dark hair, dark eyes, even darker complexion, no facial hair, not so tall that he would stand out in a crowd, and his build was mostly hidden under his jacket, but if Clint's instincts were on, it was also probably a standard build that wouldn't cause any extra stir. A man built to fit in, go unnoticed. It's always the average ones that the mind glazes over.

The man doesn't notice Hawkeye's discreet scrutiny as he ducks under the yellow tape separating the civilians from the investigators. With a stride that is confident and sure, he approaches a SHIELD agent collecting evidence.

Clint doesn't hear what they say, but he elbows Coulson, getting his attention back. "Hey, I think we got a biter. That police officer there talking to our guy? That's not a police jacket. He flipped in from a red windbreaker over there. We got ourselves an unknown party."

"Follow him?" Coulson asked.

"Follow him." Barton confirmed.

* * *

The division of labor between agent and handler is seamless. Coulson makes a beeline towards the agent who had been the subject of the unknown party's attention as Clint presses his comm into his ear and begins to trail after the man in the false jacket.

The unknown party is forced to go through security, which Barton is able to quietly bypass with his badge. He now knows that the unknown party likely has no weapons. "Coulson, we really need to come up with a better term than 'unknown party.' It's a mouthful," Barton says quietly as his target finally makes it through secruity.

"Noted," he hears back. "Okay, apparently, he was asking about the timeframe. When did she come through, how long ago did she leave. He also asked if we have any leads on where she may have gone."

"So we have an separate interest? How fun. And yet another term we need another name for." It's curious that the guy didn't try to approach Coulson or someone who appeared to be supervising. As he'd thought before: sloppy. His target exits the airport, and Barton wonders why he hasn't switched out of the police garb yet. He itches to be somewhere where he can watch from above.

He doesn't have to follow him for long until he stops and steps off to the side on a busy sidewalk, leaning against a concrete wall of the terminal building.

Clint keeps walking, staying as casual as possible, past the mark and to where he can sit down on a bike rack. The target takes out a standard flip phone- probably a prepaid to be disposed of as soon as possible. Barton tries to look busy, taking out the SHIELD issued approximation of a cell phone while keeping his ears attuned to what the mark is saying.

He man speaks in Russian, something that jarred Clint somewhat. "She was here. The reports are true... Yes. Long gone before I got here... Quite a few. If her programming is no longer intact, her training certainly still is... Unfortunately, it seems SHIELD has caught wind... Yes... And it appears I've been compromised."

Hawkeye's attention snaps to the agent, whose eyes are right on him. "But I was being so casual!" he says in protest, no longer needing to hide. "I've been made. Do I detain him or cross him off?" he asks Coulson.

"Green light on detainment, Barton. I've got your location, and I'll be sending in backup. Please try not to kill him."

The Russian agent smashes the phone against the wall, but makes no move to run. He turns toward Hawkeye.

Clint feels his adrenaline pick up, the rush that comes just before a fight flooding him. "Now that was just rude. We really could have used that," he calls out. Barton doesn't make a move for his various sidearms yet. There was too much risk of him grabbing a hostage. (Not that Clint would miss, but he'd really rather not have to prove his skills by traumatizing an innocent person like that. He just needed to keep him baited long enough for backup to bottleneck the walkway and give him a perimeter in case there were any other "separate interests" in the area.)

"Americans- always with your out-of-place humor," the mark responds, his Russian accent nearly unnoticeable.

Clint crosses his arms, noticing the crowd thinning substantially. Backup sure got here quick. "Now, of all the insults I've gotten over the years, that one probably made the least amount of sense." Hawkeye was tempted to draw and fire. The few stragglers on the sidewalk were quickly realizing something dangerous was going down and were rushing to get away, and Clint saw the German SHIELD tactical team making the perimeter. This would be prime time. Coulson told him not to kill him... He wouldn't miss an arm or a leg. He uncrosses his arms.

It's weird, nebulous times like this that Barton wishes he was just on a simple assassination mission. Much fewer limitations on what he could do.

His draw with a handgun isn't nearly as fast as his bow, but it's faster than most, so the gun is out of the holster and the bullet leaving the chamber with a resounding _crack_ that echoed sharply off the concrete wall just a hair slower than a blink. The bullet was buried in the mark's thigh, but he barely reacted.

It was so reminiscent of the Black Widow it nearly knocked the breath out of him.

What on earth did all this _mean_? They were looking for her? Programming? And this dude who appeared to have a similar reaction to getting _shot_? Seriously. Things just got weirder and weirder.

He didn't have time to ponder as the agent moved toward him, probably slowed by the bullet wound. Even if he'd been at full speed, Hawkeye doubts sincerely that the agent would've been able to take him. His spywork was sloppy as it was, so he isn't expecting miracles in hand-to-hand. He isn't wrong. (So maybe he was a bit more different from the Black Widow.)

It is a short fight, and Barton has him on the ground and in handcuffs (provided by the nice tactical people) in less than a minute.

"I'd read you your rights, but I don't really know them and I'm pretty sure they don't apply to you." Hawkeye left his knee pressed between their detainee's shoulder blades as Coulson approached. "Hey, Coulson, what are the 'read you your rights' rights? It's been so long since I've been arrested that I can't remember them."

Coulson wisely doesn't answer, and instead motions to two SHIELD agents. "They'll take him from here." Barton gets off his back, letting the two take him to a waiting armored vehicle. "He'll be transferred to the Cube where he'll be interrogated."

Barton narrows his eyes. "By that wording it makes me think we won't get to do the interrogating."

"Fury is assigning agents Woo and Carter to him," Coulson answers.

Clint snorts. "Carter? C'mon, she's barely out of diapers!"

Coulson doesn't look impressed or deterred. "How old were you on your first mission?"

"Irrelevant." Clint doesn't complain further. Interrogation isn't his preferred territory. He hasn't been in his preferred territory in quite some time, actually. He'd just really rather have his answers immediately rather than after the fact.

"Take comfort in the fact that she was partnered with Jimmy. He'll show her how it's done."

Hawkeye wouldn't deny that. "So, what are we supposed to do in the meantime?"

"Fury has a new mission for us. How do you feel about dealing with the Serpent Society?"

Barton can't stop the grimace that came with the name. "Gross is how I feel about it. But we're going anyway, so there's really no point in me arguing."

Coulson actually smiled at that. Clint returned it, rejoicing in this small return to their former camaraderie. "Wheels up in fifteen."

* * *

**February 19, 2004**

**2100 hours**

**The Cube, Location Classified**

Agent Jimmy Woo has a hard time coming across a person who can keep information from him. He isn't super powered or anything of the like, but he is adept at knowing when people are keeping things from him. Human behavior in that regard is like this magnificently crafted lock to him. All he needs to do is pay attention to the tumblers and the person will open, and the information he needs will come spilling out.

His young partner, Agent Carter, shares his gift of getting the information needed. She is talented, but unrefined. Considering her young age, that doesn't surprise him.

Torture isn't particularly becoming of Jimmy, but he understands and accepts the necessity. He doesn't try to deny anymore how the practice goes hand in hand with his natural gift. (That doesn't excuse him from waking up in cold sweats with the cries of his _victims_ in his ears.)

Many great men who have been perceived as unbreakable had cracked under his interrogation before, and they would continue to do so.

However, just because he knows he will get his information no matter the length of time, it does not mean he is always prepared for what is said in these moments when the interrogation stops and the information begins to flow.

This is one of those times when Agent Jimmy Woo is caught completely and totally off-guard.

The Russian spy, an inexperienced one at that, did not take long to open. Under two days. He had let Agent Carter take the lead, and she'd performed admirably. He felt that it wouldn't be long now before she was sent off on her own.

Once the spy, named Dmitri Smerdyakov, gave him the last piece of information he'd been hiding, when there were no more secrets to be wrenched from him, Woo sat back, and Carter looked expectantly at her partner.

"Agent, come with me," he commanded softly, leading her out of the room. The pair carefully retain their composure, or their interrogation characters as it were, until they are both outside the room.

Once behind the mirrored wall where they can still observe their prisoner without his seeing or hearing them, Agent Carter says, "Holy shit."

Jimmy scrubs a hand over his face. "Understatement."

Sharon turns her head, observing Dmitri. "He was definitely telling the truth, right? You got that too?"

"Have confidence, Sharon. You have good instincts and you must learn to trust them," he advises. He hasn't completely shaken the role of mentor with her. "And yes. He was telling the truth. It appears the Black Widow is now a freelancer."

"I can't imagine how many people will want her if they find out she's not under Russia's thumb anymore."

The implications are far-reaching. Woo sighs resignedly. "Neither can I. We need to put in a call to the director. She needs to be dealt with. Quickly. Before anyone else catches wind that they might be able to claim the Black Widow for themselves."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel that I should mention that Fisher would be played by Shemar Moore, Agent Jimmy Woo by Tim Kang, and Dmitri Smerdyakov by Jaime Hector.
> 
> Only one more chapter before this story is finished. That seems very surreal.


	25. The Beginning in the End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The big finale. Pretty sure this is the longest fic chapter I've ever written. I truly hope the wait is worth it. Hugs and kisses for you all.
> 
> Special thanks to my dear Hallie (tumblr user thehalliebadger) who kindly beta'd this chapter for me when nothing felt like it was working.
> 
> Gail Runciter (Red) would be portrayed by Kumiko Konishi and Wendell Vaughn (Quasar) by Daniel Sunjata.

**February 25, 2004**

Washington, D.C. is thoroughly plunged into the throes of winter as Phil Coulson pulls his coat tighter against the brisk chill in the air. The sky is leaden gray with the promise of new snowfall. To his right, the Reflecting Pool plays gracious host to a slew of civilians in their winter gear tottering about across the frozen surface. A thick layer of snow banks the sidewalks, and the dregs the plows left behind are mingled with rock salt and crunch beneath Phil's feet. The spire of the Washington Monument rises up behind him, and to his front is the snowed in Lincoln Memorial. All around are the sounds of winter and tourists having fun.

On a bench ahead of him, Coulson spots Nick Fury. It's always a task to find him in these environments - he blends in effortlessly, as if he never left fieldwork. SHIELD's director is clad in black, his leather duster exchanged for a less conspicuous black coat, bald head covered with a black beanie, and sunglasses to substitute for the eyepatch.

On his approach, Phil greets genially, "Director."

"Coulson," he says back, moving to the side to indicate that his agent should take a seat next to him. "I should congratulate you and Barton on your last assignment. The Serpent Society is never easy to deal with."

Coulson answers as he sits, "Barton got out of there alive and with the mission objective complete. That's congratulations enough."

"How is he?"

"Pissed that they managed to pull a fast one on him. A bit battered, but nothing serious; I'm sure you read my report."

"Mission ready?"

"He certainly thinks he is. His reaction times are a bit slower, but still faster than every other agent we have."

Fury grumbles, "Talented bastard."

"That he is," Coulson confirms.

"You read Agent Woo's report," Fury says, half a question and half an assumption.

"I did," Coulson answers. "What was Pierce's reaction?"

"The World Security Council wants her crossed off as soon as possible."

"What the World Security Council wants is generally not what Alexander Pierce wants."

Fury sighs heavily. "Pierce seemed... _intrigued_ by the idea that we could get her on our side, but who _hasn't_ thought about the benefits of getting her on their side? In the end, he voted with the Council. We have orders to cross her off as soon as we can find her. Where are we on that?"

"Fisher's on the face trace and her known aliases. She used a US passport with the name Natalie Rushman to get to Germany, and we'll be ready if she tries to use it again."

"I doubt she'll be that sloppy. Who's on your list of ops for the mission?" Fury asks.

Phil had known this question was coming, but he still cringes. "Red and Quasar are at the top of my list."

There's a heavy pause before Fury asks, "Not Hawkeye?"

Choosing as much honesty as he can afford, Coulson answers, "His judgement is... clouded."

"How so?"

"He seems to be under the impression that she can be recruited for SHIELD. That she could join our side."

Fury leans back into the frozen bench, and contemplates the civilians in front of them for a few seconds before answering. "I hate to say this, but he's a professional." Fury's tone of disgust nearly makes Coulson crack a grin. "He'll get the job done if we need him to."

"Do you want me to send Hawkeye after the Widow, sir?"

Fury turns his head to look hard at Coulson. "Why _don't_ you, Coulson? He's the best operative we've had in years. Needs an attitude adjustment, but he's got a near perfect mission record. He gets the job done."

"Yes sir. I'll call him and let him know." Coulson moves to stand when Fury's stern voice halts him.

"Phil, cut the shit. What happened in South Africa?"

"Sir?"

"I didn't become the Director of SHIELD by _not_ being able to tell when people are lying to me. Not only that, you and Barton have been on shaky ground. Don't look at me like that Phil, I may only have one eye but a _blind_ person could see the tension between you since that mission."

Phil schools his face to blankness. "We haven't lied. We've been disagreeing on the Black Widow's willingness to come to our side. That's the truth."

Coulson can't tell behind the glasses, but he strongly suspects that Fury just rolled his eye at him. "Okay. Just know that I'm officially recommending Hawkeye for this mission. Feel free to send out Red and Quasar with him."

"He works best alone."

"Then send them as two different parties. One can roll out the welcome wagon and the other can be there in case of any screw ups." Fury stands then before turning back to Coulson. "We're not letting her slip through our fingers again. I want that menace in a body bag soon."

Coulson nods. "Yes, sir."

The Director takes a few steps before he turns back once more. "You know I always appreciate your candor, Phil." Coulson senses that this is going somewhere, so he makes no effort to speak up. "The Widow has been a thorn in our side long enough. I need you to do whatever it takes to take her down, understood? Even if that means not siding with Barton."

He swallows hard. "We'll take her down. I'll give you a rough mission plan no later than tomorrow."

Fury contemplates his underling briefly before nodding tersely and turning sharply on his heel, walking back towards the Washington Monument.

* * *

On the other side of the world, a train shoots through Switzerland, heading steadfastly towards the border of Italy.

The Black Widow is nothing if not resourceful. She looks around herself, knowing that if she got herself here, she may have brought something along with her. She darts her hands beneath her seat, and pulls out a small canvas messenger bag with a leather shoulder strap and brass buckles. She feels a vague sense of recognition of the bag, but hasn't the foggiest idea of what is inside.

She feels something wet on the inside of her right palm, and pulls it away from the bag.

Blood.

There's blood on her hand. Warm and wet and so vibrantly dark red.

_We must never disappoint our country._

_Mama, what are you doing?_

Her fingers fail and the bag slips from her grasp, her throat closed and diaphragm writhing in a trapped gasp, and the sound of the canvas colliding with the floor jolts her, and suddenly her hand is perfectly clean. She sits absolutely still for a moment. Her eyes are wide and steady on her hand as though she herself is an illusion that, if she stares at hard enough, will dissolve.

Making her breathing determinedly steady, she reaches down and picks up the bag. ( _For practicality's sake_ ) she scans the outside for any blood.

Perfectly clean.

She is very nearly alone in the car, the nearest other passengers being five seats behind her, so she dumps the bag out on the seat next to her. It's a small pile- the bag was obviously hastily or thoughtlessly assembled and wasn't filled to capacity.

One passport, with her train ticket tucked inside. Her name is Natalie Rushman. My name is Rushman. Natalie Rushman. Natalie supposedly lives in Florida in the United States in a city called St. Augustine. Natalie has three stamps in her passport- two are older, the ink dried and fully soaked into the pages from Russia and Germany. She can't remember getting them, and the dates are from forgotten days. The third is newer, the word _SCHWEIZ_ and February 25 stamped from Switzerland.

One near-empty Ice Mountain water bottle. Her mouth is dry and her lips cracked, so she hastily unscrews the cap and lifts it to her lips before stopping herself. What is she _thinking?_ She _cannot_ afford to get sloppy. She sniffs it hesitantly. Her body jerks away of its own accord from the sickeningly sweet, fruity smell. It could be anything from chloroform to paraldehyde, to about a dozen other poisonous substances the Widow can think of off the top of her head. Even if it is harmless, she'd rather quench her thirst elsewhere. She replaces the lid carefully and places it on the seat next to her, where she picks up the next two items.

Two silver pens- the ones that are heavy and look like they cost a nice chunk of change. She twists one, half-expecting some sort of explosion or weapon, but is underwhelmed by the ballpoint that emerges. Same with the other.

The final item is a mystery.

A torn piece of paper, smaller than the palm of her hand, and with a sloppily written message on it.

 _711417925 Petr-_ the final word devolves into illegibility, the next letters unknown, as the only following marking is a deep, inked slash across the paper, as if it was dragged from her hand.

She looks hard at each item, feeling them in her hands, smelling them, hoping that something would trigger a memory.

The torn edge of the paper trips something in her mind, the sound of tearing paper and heaving breath and scraping nails, but nothing concrete.

She feels like she can remember the pens rolling between her palms, can remember tossing them into the bag, but she of all people knows that memory is a finicky beast. Nothing is perfect recall, rather most of memory is a creative reimagining of what once was seen.

She swallows hard and replaces the items in the bag.

Then comes the realization that she had no clue what she's supposed to do now.

The tinny voice of the conductor comes across the speakers, saying that this will be the last stop from the S78 Train and all passengers should make their way to the nearest exit with all carry ons. Thank you for choosing ItaliaRail, and welcome to Milan.

The platform is crowded, and the sky is a sallow shade of gray, the clouds hanging low in the sky. As she steps out of the train, the cold is like a slap to the face. Nowhere near the frigid temperatures of her youth, but the change is still jarring. She wears a baggy sweatshirt, thin pants, and bare feet jammed into a pair of sneakers. She finds herself shivering.

She gets her passport stamped, because she knows that's exactly what she needs to do.

After that is far more relative.

* * *

Fury looks up when Barton comes in, already decked out in his stealth mission gear. "So you've heard."

"That the Widow's passport pinged in Milan an hour ago? Yeah." He sounds incredulous.

"It seems sloppy for her," Fury says.

Hawkeye snorts, crossing his arms, "No shit. She stays off our radar for how long, and we catch her using the same passport that she _knows_ we have a bead on? It doesn't smell right."

Fury watches Barton carefully, keeping in mind what Coulson had told him earlier. "The World Security Council is putting a high priority on this. Pierce is watching us closely. We cannot afford any other fuckups, Barton. I don't care about whatever bullshit you and Coulson pulled in South Africa. But this needs to end, and soon. Do I make myself clear?"

There's not even the barest microexpression crossing Barton's face right now. He's a good liar. "Crystal, sir."

* * *

**Rural Spain**

In the yellow light of late morning, the shape of two people tangled beneath dark green sheets is easily discernible. Their room is small but adequate, indicative of the rest of the modest cottage. It's done in lovely cobbled stonework and polished light wood and Gail wishes that she and Wendell could get away with staying here forever.

But both of their SHIELD-issued earpieces sit on their bedside tables, a constant reminder that they're always a single call away from their next mission.

"Oh my _god_ , Red." It's said breathlessly and with the kind of wonderment that can only come from being completely sated.

Gail says back to him, just as breathless, "I think I'll forever regret not getting to have Metallica as my call sign. I'd enjoy hearing you call that out during sex."

Wendell laughs softly beside her. "Just because I'm your SO doesn't mean I'd ever be able to get that approved."

"You're telling me the guy who got the call sign _Quasar_ approved wouldn't be able to swing _Metallica_ with the brass? I'm disappointed."

" _I'm_ disappointed because I definitely promised that after we finished up in Yemen, I'd fuck you until you couldn't talk," Wendell says, managing to make her shiver even though _perfectly completely sexually satisfied_ can adequately describe her at present.

She doesn't hold back her smirk, "Aw, dearest, you knew that would be an impossible goal as soon as you took it."

"Perhaps it was my wording," he suggests, shifting so that he half lies over her again. "Maybe I need to _make love_ to you instead."

"Oh, I like the sound of that," Gail answers, grasping the back of his neck and pulling him towards her for a kiss. He leans back into it, one of his hands coming up to cradle her cheek in his hand. _Christ_ , but Gail can't remember a single time in her life when she felt so cherished by anyone.

Certainly not by her parents, a father who died of cancer before she could truly remember him and a mother who spent more time on a bar stool than she did anywhere else. Her older brother did his best to raise her right, but one drunk driver later, and Jacob was gone too.

Things are starting to get interesting, and she pulls herself out of her memories to straddle Wendell, purposefully rolling her hips into his. It's then that their comms sound, breaking the silence and snapping them both out of any previously good mood they might have had.

Gail rolls off Wendell with a sigh, bouncing on the bedsprings a bit before reaching over and snagging her earpiece.

"This is Red," she answers, taking care to not sound as annoyed as she is (also, she was definitely on the path back to blazing arousal, so she tries to not sound like she's been interrupted.)

"Agent Runciter," comes the droll voice of Agent Coulson. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

She hears Wendell leave the room, taking his call out into the kitchen. She's tempted to turn and watch that fantastic ass walk out of the room, but she _is_ on a professional call, so she probably shouldn't. "Just some great R &R. Have I been reassigned already?"

"Yes. Apologies for cutting your time off short."

Gail stands and begins to dress. "It's no problem. Life of a SHIELD agent and all that."

"We are very impressed by your performance in Yemen. Agent Vaughn gave you excellent marks, and your solo missions have been nearly flawless. Upper management has noticed."

Her movements stutter slightly as she pulls her shirt over her head. "Thank you, sir," she says briskly, determined to be calm and collected. Dressed in a white tank top and sturdy leggings, she begins tugging on her boots.

"Since your performance has been so exemplary, you're going to be tasked with more difficult missions, and you won't always be paired with your SO. That being said," Coulson continues as she throws her go bag on the bed, "You and Quasar are one of the most effective teams SHIELD has had in its repertoire to date, and Director Fury has agreed with me to put you and Vaughn on the Black Widow."

Her breath catches in her throat. "Say again, sir?"

"The unit tracking her has had some recent breakthroughs in pinning down her location. We need a strike team that is efficient and unbreakable. You and Quasar have worked together for years and fit that bill. Agent Hill is filling in your partner now. Both of you are to make your way to the rendezvous point sent to your StarkPads as soon as you can."

 _As soon as you can._ Shit, they always give a timeframe. Always. That's SHIELD training 101. Gail bets they know exactly where the Russian's Pit Bull is right now, and they want to get on her fast.

"Anything else, sir?"

"You'll be meeting Agent Barton at your rendezvous point. He is running point on this mission, so for the foreseeable future, he is now your SO. Good luck." The click of the disconnected line soon meets her.

 _Agent Barton._ Hawkeye. The man who never misses. Holy shit.

Quasar's mood appears to be very similar to hers as he comes into the room, still naked as the day he was born. "Hawkeye," she says.

He nods, seemingly in awe himself. "Yeah."

"You ever meet him?"

"Saw him once when he was getting re-certified after an injury. I mean jesus, I still think that him being there was a front because we were all just cadets and it was our first day in the shooting range and the dude is hitting insane shots with a fucking bow and arrow while some of us were so nervous we couldn't even hit the damn targets with a scope."

"So he's really that good?"

"From what I've seen of the mission files he's been involved in, yeah. Plus his range scores don't lie."

Gail nodded slowly, "So when you said 'us' just then, does that mean you missed your target in front of SHIELD's best sharpshooter?" She's grinning madly by the end of her sentence from watching his expression transform from awe into annoyance.

"I'm not answering that," he says as he begins to don his clothing.

"That means you totally did."

* * *

**13 Hours Later**

He's stripping a sniper rifle when they enter the run down motel room on the outskirts of Milan.

For some reason, Gail thought he'd be older. However, he's actually much younger than a majority of the field agents she's worked with in her time with SHIELD. There's an empty coffee pot sitting next to his right elbow and a white rag fisted in his left hand. Somehow, she's underwhelmed when she actually looks at him - shouldn't he be taller?

What she is impressed by is the nearly second nature way his fingers move across the dissembled weapon, not ceasing in his movements even when he looks up upon their entry.

She's also heavily amused by the way her partner is hiding how awestruck he is - his shoulders are as far back as he can pull them, and his posture is as stiff and straight as he can possibly get it. Gail supresses a smile.

Quasar steps forward protocol on his lips. "Agents Vaughn and Runciter, call signs-"

"Yeah, yeah, Quasar and Red, I know," Hawkeye interrupts. He sets the pieces of the rifle down, and Gail notices the quiver strung behind his back, looking like nothing she'd ever seen before. She figures his legendary bow must not be far away and has a strong compulsion to see it. "Look, here's the deal- I work alone. I don't usually have a second, much less a third. So what that means is this: don't be afraid to tell me if I'm being a fucking idiot. If you've got an idea you think will work better, tell me. But, at the end of the day, my word is the damn gospel, got it? I'm your eyes in the sky and chances are I'll be able to see things that you won't. We're heading out as soon as our analyst can give us some sort of heading. Get your weapons in order. We need to be ready to move. So." His stance drops, and he picks up the rifle pieces again. "That was just about as authoritative as I can get. I think Fury would be proud of me."

Both Red and Quasar stand near the door, not quite sure how to respond to Hawkeye's sudden personality adjustment. Just as they were about to start moving, Hawkeye drops one of his rifle pieces and picks up the coffee pot, holding it out in their general direction. "If anyone is headed towards the kitchen, I'd really appreciate some more coffee."

* * *

The first thing the Black Widow learns on the outside is that 'lost' is not simply an adjective.

One day, she learns it is an emotion when she realizes she has no safe houses to go to. No backup plans or even money to get a room at a hostel. Lost is the feeling she has when she finds an alleyway in Milan when she curls in upon herself against a wall, nothing but a crushed cardboard box beneath her back.

( _We have no use for a child who cannot follow orders._ )

Her body shivers, her mind reels, because she truly has no one and nowhere to go. They have been all she's known. They provided. ( _We must never disappoint our country._ ) And now she feels like she is falling from a building. She wishes it was free fall, because that meant that she could fall forever. But she knows that her fall will come to a violent end. She'll hit the ground and her body will break apart and it will be over. ( _Can I even have a soul?_ )

Lost is a verb when she awakens in the morning, her healing body doing her no favors having slept on the unforgiving concrete, and realizing she has no idea what to do or where to go.

She tries to not let it scare her that she doesn't even know what she's healing from.

Lost is again an emotion when she wants to take a shower, feel the grime come off her body, and she again realizes she has nowhere to do so. She's cold, her body aches, and warm water pouring over her skin might sound like the best thing in the world to her right now, but _she can't have it_.

She is lost when she falls asleep under a bridge because the rain is pouring down and everything hurts, there are pins and needles in her feet and her eyes, she can't feel her hands and feet, and she decides she cannot go on any longer. She curls in on herself, wrapping everything towards her core where it still feels like she's warm.

She starts to believe that lost will become permanence when she spends the next four days without food, and only meager amounts of water.

It is only after she begins picking through a trashcan for something to eat that she refuses to feel lost any longer.

She sees a distorted image of herself in an opaque puddle. Hunched over as if she were an old woman, her hair is greasy and snarled like a rat's nest, and her body is swallowed up in her large sweatshirt.

She is the _Black Widow_.

She has overcome things much worse than being lost.

She has survived.

Regardless of what happened, she cannot allow herself to wallow like a dirty waif.

She will not allow herself to be lost.

_En avant._

* * *

She finds a crowded bar and slinks through the crowd, towards the back where she knows the restrooms will most likely be located, and hopes that the barkeeps don't notice a non-patron using their facilities.

She enters the women's and blocks off the door. She'll have to be quick if she doesn't want anyone complaining about someone hogging the ladies' toilet. There are five stalls, five sinks, and five soap dispensers, and the clean tile beneath her feet is a welcome change. She drops her bag and strips out of her clothes, ragged and disgusting, but there's little she can do about her attire until she can steal some more. She can't wash her clothes, with nothing to replace them and no way to quickly dry them.

Naked before the mirror, her appearance gives her pause. Her eyes are bloodshot and red-rimmed, even though she doesn't remember crying. Her skin looks pale and sallow, and is covered in days of dead skin, sweat, and city grime. Her hair is straight and stringy with grease, and looks closer to auburn than red. It's longer than she'd prefer to have it, the ends resting on her shoulder blades. Once it regains its clean, natural curl, it'll probably feel a bit shorter. She can't count her ribs ( _it's nothing like São Paulo_ ), but she can see her muscle more clearly, can watch the fibers move and stretch as she bends toward the bowl of a sink. _  
_

She turns the faucet up as high as it can go, and the water streams out fast and clear and _hers._ It is icy at first, but it feels incredible to run her fingers over her scalp, to feel the water stripping away the dirt and filth. The sensation of water and her fingernails running over her scalp is so enchanting at first that she just runs her fingers through her hair over and over and over. She pulls out so much dead hair, she half-fears the sink will clog. She washes her hair with hand soap. Once the water begins to drain clear again, her head feeling lighter somehow, she pulls out from under the sink and wrings the excess water out of her red locks.

It's not perfect, but she'll take it. Because if she wants to do anything she'll need to look presentable. _Everyone_ will suspect someone who looks like a homeless vagrant.

She then proceeds to wash herself. Her skin reeks of body odor and the pervasive smell of the city. The water has since warmed, and she lifts her leg to place her foot in the sink. It's been so cold and wet outside, and the lack of socks has been doing her absolutely no favors. She hisses when the water hits her frozen skin; it's tepid at best, but it feels like it's being poured from a hot kettle.

She uses her hands to rub the water into her flesh, and she feels _warm._

She drags the water up her legs, pushing into her skin and peeling away the grime. She repeats her actions with her other leg and her arms, and does her best to wash the rest of herself with her hands and paper toweling. After drying with single-ply paper towels and forcing herself back into her wretched clothing, she unblocks the door and slips out of the bar after a mere ten minutes.

No one sees her go.

* * *

**Mission Log: Day 2 - Recon - Comm Transcription #21 - 29 February 2004**

H: I'm not seeing any sign of her on this body. Looks like a regular old murder to me.

R: From what I could get out of local cops, that seems to be the case.

Q: I wouldn't be too fast to dismiss. We don't know what kind of weapons she's carrying.

H: Somehow I doubt a Desert Eagle would be her choice of weapon. The Hand Cannon is not her style. Especially not taking down just your average joe.

R: We should keep our eye on all the deaths in the city. Who knows what their investigations might lead to. For all we know, she could've picked up a Desert Eagle and be carrying that if she comes across anyone she needs to take out.

Q: Well, we don't even know what her criteria is for killing people. She might be a damn loose cannon with no killswitch for all we know.

H: We don't know that for sure. If she's still killing, I doubt it's for no reason.

Q: How on earth could you say that? She's one of the most vicious and effective killers we've ever come across -

H: [laughing] We? Oh, young grasshopper, you've been on her case for maybe three says and suddenly you're the expert on the Black Widow? I've been tracking her for years.

Q: And look how effective you've been. She's still out there and killing -

H: You know who else was one of the most vicious and effective killers SHIELD's ever come across?

[dead air for 3 seconds]

Q: What -

H: Me, Quasar. I was that killer.

R: Boys, can we please focus. We are on a goddamned mission. I don't need a dick comparison contest going on in my ear.

Q: You're right, Red. I'm sorry, sir. I spoke out of turn.

H: Christ All Mighty, Quasar, I told you how I feel about 'sir'.

Q: Sorry, Hawkeye. You're the commanding officer of this mission.

H: Damn straight. But can we do everyone a favor and not apologize anymore?

Q: Yes, sir. I - I mean, yes, Hawkeye.

H: [laughing] Oh, Jesus.

R: Am I the only one still focused here?

H: Absolutely not. Super duper focused where I'm sitting.

R: Good, because I heard another report on the police radio. Three people found in an alleyway off of Via Vitruvio. One dead, one in critical condition, and another unconscious but stable. From the sound of it, sounds like there was some brutal injuries. I think this might be right up our alley.

H: That certainly sounds more like her style, especially because we don't know for sure if she has any weapons. She'll fight tooth and nail and with anything she can get her hands on.

R: Hold on a second - I'm getting more details.

[dead air for 5 seconds]

R: Okay, the dead one was apparently really brutally beaten and stabbed in the eye. The unconscious one appears to have been injected with some kind of really strong sedative, most likely. The one in critical condition had a piece of bone shoved into his brain. They're sending the two live ones to Fondazione Centro S. Raffaele del Monte Tabor. Should we go check it out?

H: Yeah. Same protocol. I've got the sky, Red, you've got the cops, and Quasar, try to not get in your girlfriend's way.

R: [laughing]

Q: That's not - we're not - there's no -

H: Relax, Stiff, I'm just messing with you. Jesus, I think I preferred you when you were yelling at me. Actually, strike my last command, I want Quasar on the survivors. See what they know if possible. If not, keep us updated on their conditions.

* * *

Back at the Hub, Coulson stares down at the message Fisher had just sent him in confusion.

The subject line said: SUPER INTERESTING. MUST READ.

Coulson had opened the message, he was greeted by a photo of Admiral Ackbar from Star Wars, with a tagline that read: _He knows when it's a trap._

That is certainly... interesting.

Only when Coulson tries to click out of the message, it doesn't go anywhere. "Oh, you have got to be kidding me," Coulson murmurs in frustration, tapping the screen of his StarkPad with a bit more gusto. "Fisher, if you sent me a virus again, I'm going to kill you." The last friendly virus Fisher had sent him had successfully replaced every single icon and background on his phone, computer, and StarkPad with a photo of Steve Roger's ass. Literally just an old, cropped photo of Captain America's butt. Every. Single. Icon.

This time, though, there is no virus.

The picture of Ackbar shimmers out of view and is replaced by text.

_Hey, Coulson. Sorry about the meme. I implanted a message within it so that I could make sure you were the only one who saw it. Hold your applause. My brilliance and hilarity aside, there's something fishy going on. I need to talk to you about it ASAP. Come to the cafeteria at 12. Jeez, I hope you check your email by then, or I'll feel really stupid sitting there by myself._

_But refocusing: super suspicious stuff. Need someone with gun probably and actual training. -Fisher_

Coulson checked the time. 12:15. Well, better late than never.

* * *

"I was really afraid you weren't going to show," Fisher says before taking an inordinately large bite of the burrito in his hands. The cafeteria is busy with the lunchtime rush, and many tables are packed with talkative agents, letting their hair down a bit during their lunch breaks. Fisher seems to have managed to claim the only table that had been unoccupied next to the wall.

Coulson slides into the table right next to Fisher so he sits with his back was to the wall. "What the _hell_ , Fisher."

"Okay, I know, I know. I'm sorry about the pomp, but there is something really serious going on in our Black Widow operation."

"What do you mean?"

Fisher brings his khaki messenger bag onto the table between them and sets his burrito aside. He opens the bag to reveal at least a ream of paper. "Okay, I know, how weird is it that Fisher has a bunch of paper in his bag rather than just his computer, right? But I didn't want to risk anyone knowing that I was poking around in anything. Not to say I'm not good at covering my tracks but -"

"Fisher," Coulson interrupts forcefully. "What is going on? Risk what?"

Fisher closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. He reopens his eyes, looking more serious than Coulson's ever seen him. He manages the expression even with his braided ponytail and an orange and yellow flowered shirt. "I'm the one who set up most of the protocols regarding tracking possible identities, practices, activities, et cetera of the Black Widow. Most of the stuff I've had so far has been conjecture, like unconfirmed aliases and credit card numbers, face-traces that end up being bogus, and murders that basically end up being regular old murders, you know?"

"Yes. Is there a point to this, or are you still hunting for that raise?"

"Yes, there is a point here, and I mean, that raise _would_ be nice, but that's what I'm trying to - stop trying to distract me with money. Anyway. So, since these leads have thus far been pretty much unsubstantiated, I don't have them on a constant stream alert system. Everything is stored and catalogued in the files for the lowly tech hobbits to sort through later. However, when we got the Natalie Rushman identity, I put it on a constant stream alert system right away. The constant alert stream system means that every single activity that happened with _anything_ tied to that identity, I knew about it right away, even if I wasn't at my station or on duty, kind of like the constant little app notifications on Starkphones and Starkpads.

"Most of the time, it meant absolutely nothing. A short little data burst would be sent to me that said there was nothing new to report. Those come to me every half hour. Whenever something big happened, I would be notified right away." That's when Fisher pulls out a very specific packet of papers, stapled together and looking like they'd been looked through many times. There are a few highlighter marks on the front page.

"I still don't understand how this is top secret information. What exactly is wrong here? Did someone hack your notification system or something?"

Fisher shakes his head, flipping to the third page of the packet. It's full of what looks like coding, but on further inspection, it's mostly just basic file names and dates/times of entry. "No, my notification system petered on, leaving me unaware of what was happening in the Black Widow files."

"And what was happening in the Black Widow files?"

Fisher stabs his finger into the first big highlighted portion of the data. "This spot is _completely_ empty. This is the tracking protocol on Natalie Rushman's passport. The date on this giant empty space is February twenty-third, and the entire bloc from 0300 hours to 0800 hours is just gone. No stored data bursts, like I programmed. Just complete emptiness. This happens two more times," he flips to the next page, "Here. 0500 hours to 0800 hours on February twenty-fifth, and then again," he flips to the next page, "the five hours _just prior_ to when her passport pinged in Milan."

Coulson nods, trying to fit the pieces together. "So, what does this mean?"

"It means that someone got into my super freaking secure programming, erased all the data from that time, and made sure that my notification system still sent me a data burst on schedule."

Everything hit Coulson like a freight train. "So we have ourselves a double-agent."

Fisher looked relieved that Coulson believed him, but also spooked out of his skin. "Yeah. There's literally no way for anyone outside SHIELD's servers to get into the Black Widow files. This person is with SHIELD and has a high security clearance "

"The data missing... how far apart is it? In time?" Coulson asks, even though he's already pulled the packet over to himself and is scanning the printout.

"Couple hours, I think-"

"I know what they removed," Coulson says in dawning realization. "Think about it. The Black Widow would have needed to travel from when she escaped us in Germany to get to Italy. What if whoever removed this data _prevented_ us from getting the pings on her passport and erased any evidence that her passport was registered at all? But why?"

"I was thinking about that as I waited for you to check your email. What if the KGB or whoever is after the Black Widow want to find her first? Maybe the only reason that we got the ping on her identity in Milan is because I came back on duty at that time and they didn't have time to completely purge the file? I mean, they'd want to slow us down as much as possible, since I think SHIELD has made it pretty clear we want her dead and buried."

Coulson picks up the thread effortlessly, "And they want her back alive... She _deserted_ and they want her back." Well, god _damn_.

Things just got a hell of a lot more complicated.

* * *

A few picked pockets and duped men later, she has purchased herself a few new sets of clothing. She finds her preferred outfit and stows the rest in the canvas bag.

Her new clothing is certainly something to see.

Without any money besides what she's stolen, she's looking for a ride from a John. Most of the credit cards she stole are probably useless by now, their owners having noticed their wallets missing, so she won't be able to get a hotel and a shower and food unless she can get someone to get her in for free. The less attention she attracts, the better off she'll be. There's no one more invisible than an anonymous sex worker, so that's the person she becomes. If she absolutely needs to, she can cross him off and take his car, but hopefully it won't come to that.

So she dons fishnet stockings, complete with sexy black garters and a short leather skirt to show them off. Her top is red and cropped just above her navel, and the thing is a mess of sheer material and sequins that hugs her ribcage and breasts. Her hair doesn't look like much, seeing as how she hasn't had the chance to properly wash it, but she knows that her aesthetic appeal won't be dampened much by it. She throws it up into a high ponytail to show off her neck and collarbones anyway. Her overzealous makeup, intense cat-eyes with smoky eyeshadow and a vibrant shade of lipstick, emphasize her features and her black, tall platform heels make her legs look longer. She knows what will attract her prey.

The chill of winter nips at her bared skin, but she's not expecting being out for very long.

She walks towards a group of prostitutes waiting next to the road on Via Vitruvio, adjusting the canvas bag on her shoulder. She hangs close enough that she can't be misconstrued as anything else (though her clothing should make that a non-issue), but far enough away that she won't have to answer to their pimp for hoarding in on their territory. She doesn't have the patience to deal with that right now.

She's barely looking into the road for seven seconds when she hears them, and barely a millisecond passes before she feels an arm wrap around her middle and a hand close over her mouth.

She's yanked hard backwards, away from the road and so quickly none of the other women notice that she's being dragged away. Another person moves to take her legs, closing their arms hard around her knees. _Three assailants. One behind holding her mouth, one to her left, and one holding her legs. All likely male._ She tries to scream against the hand as she's dragged between buildings, but to no avail.

She hears the alley gate being dragged shut.

"Okay, Alek, shut her down," says the one behind her in Russian, still holding her mouth painfully tight.

The one who hasn't touched her yet to her left moves closer, using one of his arms to halt her writhing hips.

She hears the pop of a needle being uncapped.

_The white sun against the black sky. No, not again, I swear, I'll-_

The needle enters her neck, and she's overwhelmed by the smell of antiseptic and metal and sweat. Then her adrenaline just _goes._

With a vicious sound rising in her throat, she opens her mouth against the hand holding her quiet, and _bites_. _Hard._ She tastes blood and skin as her teeth grind into the tendons and the sinew, coming to a stop when she's grinding against his bone.

He howls in pain, jerking his hand back, and he leaves a good chunk of his middle finger behind. The Black Widow turns her head and spits the blood and skin into the second man's face, and he doesn't press down the plunger before he's pulling back in shock and disgust.

The needle is still in her neck, she can feel it, but she leans forward and snaps her head back as hard as she can anyway. She feels it connect, can feel his nose and chin being crushed against her scalp. She rolls her torso hard, away from his arm but she can feel the lack of resistance from him and knows that her headbutt was at the very least a knockout blow, and she breaks his hold on her, and her torso is falling towards the ground. She cushions the fall with her arms, and she uses the ground as leverage to kick into the third man's chest. He's knocked backwards by the force of her kick and the feeling of those stilettos biting into his skin.

She rolls hard away from them, pulling the thick needle out of her neck, and stands as quickly as her impractical footwear will allow. Her eyes land on the second man, the one whose face is covered in blood that isn't his, and he's coming at her too hard and too fast. He lands a sickening punch to her diaphragm that forces the air from her lungs in a loud grunt and shoves her backward, her head slamming into the brick wall.

( _The needle thickness is indicative of where the syringe can be injected._ Please stop- _Thinner syringes are for skin and blood vessels only._ I won't- _Thicker needles are optimum, as they can be utilized in a larger number of places like through muscles and cartilage._ )

She takes advantage of her temporary height increase and slams the needle down into the man's left trapezius and squeezes the syringe all the way empty. She rattles his skull with a left hook when she's hit across the right by the man whose chest bleeds from what look like bullet holes but she realizes are from her shoes. Not completely useless after all.

Her first opponent seems to be fading. Whatever it is they'd been planning to give her must be potent, because it's already taking effect and she's not even sure she found a blood vessel. His eyes are drooping and his next punch is so sloppy, she's able to just duck under it, and throw her right shoulder into the next opponent's chest. The one she hit with the sedative goes down with a heavy thud and a muffled groan.

She scores a direct hit on one of her shoe-wounds, and he stumbles back, long enough for her to step out of the shoes and fight on solid ground. When he doesn't immediately charge back at her, she takes the time to observe him and inconspicuously draw air into the syringe. Unremarkable face. Thick, but wouldn't strike someone as being overtly strong. Wearing reasonable mission gear-sturdy pants, long sleeve black shirt with a muted red star on the shoulder, and utility belt (with a gun, she notes. They want her alive, then.)

"Come home, Black Widow."

Her head wound flares, throbbing against her eyes, but she bites it back, bites back the pain.

_Mama, what are you doing?_

"I will never come back."

"Your compliance will be rewarded," he says earnestly, eyes flicking around her face. "We must never disappoint our country-"

The throbbing intensifies, but she pushes the pain back. "You talk too much," she replies, and then flies forward.

Unfortunately, he's expecting her signature, and bats her out of the air like a fly. The ground is punishing beneath her, and she loses her grip on the syringe. The plastic apparatus skitters out of reach. She does a shoulder roll and is back on her feet in time to see him shifting into a mixed martial arts stance.

His feet are as fast as a boxer's as he moves towards her, a barrage of punches flying at her. She dodges and absorbs the best she can, and each time he lands a hit, she can feel her skin breaking, bruises forming. Each time she recovers and strikes back at the wounds she's made when she gets an opening. He moves to land a kick to her left side. Her arm flies down and she hooks her elbow around his knee. A split second later, her right straight is scoring a direct hit to his face. Her hold on his leg makes him lose balance and she unapologetically chucks him backwards. He hits the ground forcefully, the heavy thud of his body making the Widow think she's gained an advantage.

She darts a look back at the syringe, only to pay for it a moment later when he recovers faster than she'd expected and lands an answering kick to her jaw that rattles her skull and renews the heavy pounding in her head. She stumbles backwards hard, her vision swimming, but her opponent doesn't wait and the deluge of no-holds-barred fighting begins again.

 _God,_ she knows she's taking more hits than she's receiving, her body very much out of practice against such a skilled opponent. She wonders what she was doing during the missing time, because she _never_ lets herself go like this, never lets a day go by without training.

She's thrown to the ground once more, rolling a few times before she loses her momentum and she can feel the blood pouring out of the wounds on her shoulders and back.

God, her body _hurts_ , and _compliance_ sounds so easy and she's nothing without the motherland and-

_Love is for children._

_Mama, what are you doing?_

No, she's her own person, _why be the Black Widow when she can be..._

She casts her arm out to the side, finding one of her dangerously pointed shoes. She grasps it tightly in her hand, and she hears him approach. Reaching into that deep well of strength, of power, of her training, she brings herself to her feet and without any fanfare, stabs the stiletto into his eye.

He howls in agony, his body recoiling from her, hands flying up to his face on instinct, but she pushes deeper, unforgiving as her face is splattered in blood and vitreous humor leaks from the socket.

Her attack drives their weight backwards, and he collapses backwards, still vocalizing his pain. They hit the asphalt painfully, and his yell turns into an anguished scream, and there's going to be witnesses soon, she needs to _finish this_.

She leaves the shoe in his skull and retrieves the air-filled syringe. She's about to plunge it into his arm when she hears him whimper, "You are Black Widow, you are a weapon of the republic-"

The scarlet-haired assassin grabs the shoe again, renewing the pressure on his injury. He screams again.

 _Finish this._ "My name," she snarls close to his face, enjoying the fear in his remaining eye, "is not Black Widow."

She jabs the needle into his neck and empties the air into his blood stream.

She doesn't wait to watch him die.

She staggers backwards with a gasp, her breaths dragging through her throat unwillingly. The three men are lying around the alleyway either dead or unconscious. She's not going to check them. No time.

She leaves the shoes; she can make her way faster without them, but she limps her way over to her canvas bag and heaves it over her shoulder. It feels twice as heavy as it had been before.

Her chances of getting a ride are now absolutely blown to hell. She's bleeding in too many places to count right now, and she can feel a black eye forming and her lip is split. The bruises aren't fully formed yet, but she can feel them bleeding under her skin. It's only a matter of time before her skin becomes a canvas of blues and purples and greens.

She heads away from her victims, towards the opposite end of the alleyway. She flips open the bag, rummaging through the neatly folded clothing for the large sweatshirt and pants she'd come to Milan with. She'd managed to lauder them, so they smell clean, but she just needs something to cover her injuries so that she won't draw attention. She pulls them on while walking, over her faux-prostitute clothing and pauses long enough to slide her bare feet into a pair of sneakers.

She finally exits the alley and joins the easy flow of human traffic on Via Bendetto Marcello, ducking her head down and trying to keep from making eye contact with anyone. She focuses on making her gait even despite every step sending shatters of pain through her leg and into her hip.

A few blocks down, it's becoming clear to her that she's not going to be able to convincingly walk much further, and she's still in a relatively reputable part of town. Nowhere she can reasonably stop and hide to patch herself up.

She steps off to the side to lean against a building to look out across the street. The building she rests on is some restaurant called Frijenno Maganno, and the thick scent of pomodoro, prosciutto, and mozzarella wafts through the doors.

A small park of some sort is across the street, and many vehicles are parked along the curb. She watches as a man on a motor scooter fills a vacant parking place. She doesn't much care what he looks like or who he is because all she can see is that he shuts off the scooter and _leaves the key_ as he darts across the road. He's probably picking up food or a person or something that will only require his attention for a brief span of time because _no one_ whose brain still functions would leave their keys for just anyone to steal.

She doesn't take much time to decide what to do.

The scooter starts beneath her prompting, and she's away before the owner even has an inkling it might be gone.

* * *

The motion of the needle and thread through her skin is a tried and true rhythm. It hurts like a bitch, so she's got a bottle of vodka next to her with a proof so high that it could probably fuel a space ship. It was a big risk to get it, she knows that, but none of the cheaper liquors called to her as much as this one, with the letters in Cyrillic and a grossly overblown price. It tastes like home and has that sharpness that floods her senses the way only vodka can.

She ties off the end of yet another row of stitches, each set significantly sloppier than the last the more drunk she gets.

She should be freezing, what with the unheated, abandoned garage she'd gratefully tumbled into after a cold motor scooter ride through town. Each drink she takes warms her from the inside out. She knows that alcohol warmth is fake warmth though, so she pulls the trench coat she'd purchased and throws it over her legs.

She's never been big on alcohol, for good reason. She doesn't like how it dulls her senses, her reaction times. She takes another hard swig, and knows that with much more, she won't be able to shoot straight if her life depends on it. But god, her body _hurts_ and the only time the pain in her head stops is when she's good and wasted. They taught her how to deal with pain, but they never showed her that she didn't have to deal with it in every single waking moment. ( _Everything is quieter when she drinks. No mama. No we must never disappoint our country._ )

The first drink felt a bit like being punched in the diaphragm, but now all she feels is the burn in her throat and nose when she pours some of the clear liquid across the gash. The pain is dulled by the rush of alcohol in her veins, but she still blows a hard breath through clenched teeth.

She can't stay in Italy, much less Europe. It's too close. They've already found her once, and they won't stop.

As they said, she's a weapon of the republic. They won't let her slip through their fingers.

Every single one of her covers are as good as blown. They'll be watching for any of her known aliases around the world, and she realizes that that's how they probably found her this time. She vows to ditch Natalie Rushman as soon as she finds a dumpster to put her in.

She'll need a new set of ID, which will be a bitch to get ahold of. It might be easier to simply make her own since she didn't know who or where she could go to on the streets for something like that, couldn't trust anyone else to do it well enough to get her through customs to the United States.

Somehow, as the thread pulling through her skin darkens her vision and the alcohol numbs her awareness, she doesn't really question why she's chosen the US.

It's an ocean away from her handlers. An ocean away from _Mama, what are you doing?_ Tensions between Russia and the United States have always been high. Maybe that'll be enough to keep them away. ( _The fact that Hawkeye is in the United States does not factor into her plans. Not at all._ )

She'll need luggage of some sort. She can't come into the United States with only a small handbag claiming to be a citizen if she wants to pass unnoticed. She can't wait for her injuries to heal, so she'll need to buy plaster strips and load her face up with makeup. She's hidden worse.

She can already imagine what she'll say. _I've been on holiday. No, they say vacation. I've been on vacation. I had a lovely time._

A plan makes her feel more in control. So even though her stomach is starting to churn and she's burning through the vodka faster than she should if she's planning on not throwing up, she smiles and ties off her last set of stitches.

* * *

**March 1, 2004**

Their adrenaline is finally crashing, leaving them all panting and tired. None of them are seriously injured, which he counts as a blessing. His small crew is huddled in an abandoned warehouse, taking stock of what weapons they'd managed to salvage in their rush to leave their safehouse.

_They return to the motel exhausted from a day of fruitless hunting and dejected from their leads dying and escaping at the hospital._

_Clint answers the alert on his comm, signaling that someone (probably Coulson) from the Hub wants to talk to him._

_"Agent Barton, call sign Tired As Fuck, how may I -"_

_"Barton, don't go back to your safehouse!_ _" Coulson all but yells over the comm._

_"What? Coulson, we're already there -"_

_"There's a fucking mole, Barton! They know where you're stationed, and they want to get the Black Widow first. They want her alive and they aren't going to just let us kill her. Get the fuck out of there."_

_Clint snaps to attention, taking on the guise of leader once more. "Red, Quasar, get all the weapons you can carry, and fast," he snaps urgently. They lurch into action immediately, their exhaustion being pushed down for the time being._

_"There's no time, Clint!" Coulson insists, "Get out! They probably already have eyes on your place, take what you have and get out!"_

_Red and Quasar had already gathered a few things, but judging by Coulson's very evident and slightly contagious alarm, that is all they are going to get. "Guys! It doesn't matter anymore! We're compromised, we have to get out!"_

_"Find a safe place, resent your comm channels, and call me." Coulson disconnects abruptly, and the trio of agents rush for the door._

_They barely make it to the motel stairs before the bomb goes off._

They had all been far enough away that the worst of the injuries came from being thrown against the walls by the blast concussion, and despite the million other things that should be at the forefront of his mind right now, the only thing he can think about is what Coulson had said. _They want her alive. They want to get to her first._

 _How many more times do I need to almost get blown up looking for this woman,_ he thinks.

Red looks solid, but Quasar looks slightly shaken. Surprising. Clint thought that the SO would be better off than his trainee. Red casts concerned looks in Quasar's direction, which he doesn't entirely receive. On the bright side, he looks solid enough to finish the mission as Hawkeye looks over their assorted weaponry while Quasar resents the comm channels.

If Red notices Quasar's slight trembling, she doesn't mention it.

"Done," he proclaims finally, and hands back their comms, and Barton immediately puts in a call to Coulson's direct line.

 _"Agent Coulson,"_ his handler answers.

"We're alive, so you can quit your worrying," Barton says.

_"Thank god. I'm going to keep this brief. Fisher made sure there are no bugs in this phone, and he's making sure this call stays clear."_

"That guy really does deserve a raise."

 _"No kidding. You are somewhere that isn't affiliated with SHIELD?"_ Coulson asks.

Hawkeye scoffs. "I'm not a rookie. We're safe for now."

_"Weapons?"_

"We still had on our field gear, plus we managed to carry out an M24, three extra Beretta 92s, and two M4 Carbines. No extra ammo other than what's already loaded."

_"So you're relatively well armed, but low on ammo."_

"That's what worries me. I've got my bow, and I can attach the arrowheads that I can reuse. We'll just have to be careful with our bullets if we come up against the separate interest."

_"But you can complete the mission."_

He looks over his two agents, who watch him with avid interest. He can hear Fury's words in his head, _This needs to end, and soon._ "Yes. We can finish this."

 _"Good, because we know where she is_ right now _."_

* * *

The Piazza del Duomo is densely populated on this day. There's some sort of festival going on in the square, the crisp winter weather doing nothing to detract from the air of revelry. Vibrant flags are strung up around the square, complimenting the colorful shopping booths that are set up in rows on the east side of the plaza. A small band plays upbeat music, and few particularly jubilant celebrants have taken up dancing near them in the middle of the sqaure. On the west end of the piazza, a variety of food stands offer an array of pungent, delicious-smelling cuisine. The Duomo di Milano plays backdrop to the festivities, the famed cathedral of Milan spearing upwards into a clear sky.

The sea of humanity isn't as dense as it could be, but it will certainly make locating the Widow that much more difficult. Red and Quasar are already stationed in the throng of colorful people, mulling about until one of them spots the Widow.

Quasar is stationed on the west end of the plaza, and Red on the east. Each of them wear casual winter gear over their mission duds. If he didn't know exactly where they were, he wouldn't be able to pick them out from the next festival-goer.

Coulson had given him an exact description, and told him that she'd likely be entering from - "Got her. West end of the plaza. Close to the merry band."

Her hair is blonde now, her clothing colored in delicate pastels. Her pale tan trench coat swishes smartly around her legs, and a light pink scarf wraps around her neck. A tilted, wide-brimmed hat partially hides her face from where he's sitting on the north face of the piazza, but for Hawkeye, there's absolutely no mistaking that it's her.

 _"I'm not seeing her,"_ Red answers.

"Trench coat. Pink scarf. Big hat." She doesn't look to have any significant injuries, but she is slightly favoring one leg.

 _"I see her,"_ Red and Quasar say almost simultaneously.

"Move into position," he orders them, and runs through the plan in his mind. But no sooner can he recall the first step does he spot them.

Five, six, seven black-garbed people coalescing on the Black Widow like white blood cells to a parasite. "Strike that order, _fuck_ , they found her too."

They spread out around her in a loose circle, still a part of the ever-moving crowd, but the Widow acts like she doesn't even know they're around her. Her gait never falters and her eyes are fixed forward.

 _"Hawkeye, take the shot. They want her alive. Take out their motivation._ " Quasar insists.

"You are not giving the orders here, Quasar."

_"I'm just giving you my opinion from the ground."_

"And I'm giving you my opinion as the SO of this mission," Hawkeye snaps. "Red, Quasar, follow them."

_"On it."_

_"Moving into position."_

He's watching Red slowly and casually make her way towards the group when the fight breaks out. One of them must have reached for her or tried to speak with her, because the number of agents in black is now down to six, and one is lying on the ground motionless. "Fucking hell," he swears, and nocks an arrow.

It's not long before the civilians scatter, realizing what is going down, and a few panicked screams arise. They push back and away from the fight, forming a panicky circle around the chaos in the middle. Red is on the edge of the civilian bubble, avidly watching the fight and waiting for her orders.

 _"Hawkeye!"_ Quasar tries again, now on the opposite side of the circle than Red, _"I really think you should take the shot!"_

"I don't know if you noticed, Rambo, but we're outnumbered, and we don't know what other assets they might have in the area -"

Two gunshots interrupt him, followed by a chorus of civilian screams, and he sees that the Widow has managed to gain a gun from one of her opponents. She's down to four and none of them are yet going for any of their lethal weapons. They look like they're trying to rein in a wild animal, but she pauses in her shooting. He can't see her face, but her stance is defensive and she's _definitely_ favoring one leg. She looks like she wants to run.

Most of the civilians are running clear away from the battle now, their thrills set aside now that guns are in the equation, and Hawkeye can hear the distant wail of sirens. However, there are still the few who remain, gathering grainy images on flip phones, and some who seem like they want to help, but have no idea to go about it. People who want to be heroes, not realizing that this is _not_ the time.

He feels like he's biding for time, because for once in his life as a SHIELD agents, he has no fucking clue what he's supposed to do. Then the Widow decides for him, taking out the last four men surrounding her with quick, clean headshots.

" _I'm going in. We can't let her kill these civilians,"_ he hears Quasar say, and then everything seems to move in slow motion.

Quasar darts from the crowd, having shed his bulky disguise and is now dressed in - _fuck_ \- all black SHIELD stealth gear. He approaches from behind, probably thinking that he can take her by surprise -

 _"Quasar, stop!"_ Red pleads, backing up Clint's orders, but it's not enough.

"Quasar, she's only going for threats! Don't -" but their words either don't get to him fast enough or he doesn't care.

Because the Widow has seen him.

She puts a bullet in his head before he gets within five feet of her.

Hawkeye can see her face, and it's startling to him how frozen she looks. Deadened. Everything about her posture earlier said that she was scared, that she just wanted to escape. Now, though, _now_ she looks like a killer, surrounded by bodies and panicking people with a cold, indifferent demeanor to match.

Quasar collapses, and his body slaps into the hard brick of the piazza. The bullet wound starts to bleed, the scarlet pooling beneath him on the ground.

Hawkeye doesn't need his comm to hear Red scream, " _No!_ "

He abandons his post, heading for the fire escape, "Damn it, Red, don't do anything stupid!" he says into the comms, futilely, because she doesn't say anything back to him. Looking back out into the plaza as he reaches the ground, he watches as his other agent charges at the Widow.

_No, no, no._

"Red, _stop!_ " he yells, but to no avail.

The Widow starts to fire at Red, but she's prepared for that. She ducks and rolls to the right, maintaining her pace towards the Widow but getting out of the line of fire. Red lets loose a battle cry when she comes upon the Russian assassin, and the Widow tosses aside the handgun and drops into offensive stance.

They come together like colliding storm systems.

Red fights like rage, all brawling and heavy hits. Meanwhile, the Widow fights like patience, smart, conservative strikes until she makes her move.

The Black Widow picks up Red, heaving her clear over her shoulder, and throws her hard down to the ground. Red's head snaps back to the ground on impact, and the crack resounds loudly. She's not dead yet, so the Widow drags her up by her hair and wraps an arm around her neck threateningly.

Hawkeye is running as hard as he can, but he's not in the Widow's line of sight, as he's running at the pair from their left flank.

"Widow! Stop!" he yells, but she must not hear him.

He's close enough, though, to hear the Widow growl, "I'll never go back."

Then she snaps Red's neck.

_No._

_God, please, no._

"Widow!" he yells again, and this time, she spins to face him.

Her deadened look falters. "Hawkeye?"

The wails of the sirens get closer.

She bristles, clearly trying to decide whether to stay or flee. His first instinct shouldn't be to try to reach out to her. Red lies not ten feet from him, eyes still wide open, and Quasar still bleeds, facedown and pallid. No, no, Gail and Wendell. Those were their names. Gail Runciter and Wendell Vaughn. God, those were his agents. He should want to _hurt_ her, should want to put an arrow through her heart and laugh.

Instead, he replaces the arrow in his quiver, and drops his hands non-threateningly to his sides. "Hey, it's okay, I'm not here to hurt you," he says.

Some semblance of reason seems to return to her then, as she looks to the bodies of his agents with widened eyes, and then back to him. "I - I killed your people." Then, "Why haven't you killed me?"

She's desperately hunting for truth, so he gives it to her. "Because I want to trust you."

She smiles sadly at him. "That is your first mistake."

* * *

_Because I want to trust you._

Who does this man think he is? He should _know_ what she's done. Even if she hadn't killed his people just now, he knows enough about what she's done to warrant her death ten times over.

( _I_ _regret nothing in the service of my country._ )

( _That's a load of b_ _ullshit, and you know it_.)

( _Mama. Trachea spilling out. Love is for children. Spinal cord ripping. Let me do this one good thing. Love is for children._ )

She feels like an exposed nerve, even though he's refused to kill her - twice now. She's not stupid enough to think that there will be a third time.

She should try to put him flat on his back, should knock him out or better yet... She should want to, because that's what's in her best interest.

But he knows her. Somehow, in the handful of violent minutes they've been in acquaintance, he _knows_ her.

Then there are police cars roaring into the square, their sirens echoing harshly off of the enclosed walls.

She looks from them back to Hawkeye.

 _You don't have to do shit like this anymore._ _Do you know what they did to you in there?_

She swallows hard, and the world seems to halt on it's axis.

( _Trust breeds mediocrity._ )

( _"The only solution I've thought of wouldn't make sense."_

_"Except that you're right."_

_"You realize this means we're completely fucked, right?"_

_"Completely."_ )

( _"Are you going to be my new mama? I think we should be friends."_

 _"I'd like that very much."_ )

( _Trust breeds mediocrity_.)

"Come with me," she says.

* * *

He really shouldn't. Just because he wants to trust her doesn't mean that he already does.

He really shouldn't. She killed two SHIELD agents, two agents under his orders, not even ten minutes ago. Their bodies are still warm, their eyes still wide open.

_God forgive me._

He follows her.

She warns over her shoulder, "Stay alert. I doubt the force they sent after me were their only agents in the area. We might be ambushed on the way back."

* * *

They are.

Her warning had made him draw and nock an arrow, keeping it at the ready as they raced through back roads and alleyways.

They both seem to notice it at the same time. The sounds of two pairs of feet pounding the pavement multiplies into four, six. It's impossible to count until they swarm. Two drop from above, the low roofs making the perfect hiding place to safely spring from. Three block off the front of the alley, and two others close off the back end.

They're effectively cornered by the black-suited agents. Hawkeye notes that each of them has a red star on their shoulder, and he wonders if it's significant.

He spends his first arrow on one dropping from above. It plunges into their solar plexus with a wet slide, and they hit the ground with the sounds of snapping bone and heavy flesh.

The other lands nearly on top of the Widow, but she's dispatched him before Hawkeye can nock his next arrow.

The Widow and Hawkeye have dropped into a back-to-back stance without realizing it.

Facing the end of the alley with the two opponents fast approaching, Hawkeye draws back his arrow, and fires. It finds its mark, sinking into the chest of the agent on the left who tries to keep running, keep standing, but soon drops to the alley floor face first, making the arrowhead shove out their back.

He can hear the Widow engaging her own assailants behind him, but must focus on his own.

The agent is as tall as he is, with her hair cropped short, ideal for fighting. She darts a jab out to punch him, and he deflects with his bow. He drops it moments later when she comes at him with a left hook.

He catches her hand painfully in his, but grinds through the shock to twist her arm to try to dislocate her elbow. She doesn't let him get that far though, as in a startling moment of acrobatic finesse, she jumps off the ground, turning her body in the air so that her joint is no longer in jeopardy.

She lands low to the ground and the change in angle rips her hand out of his grasp. With a wide sweep of her leg, she knocks his legs out from underneath him. Before she can take advantage of him being on his back, he puts his hands on the ground next to his head and flips himself to his feet. Using the momentum from his jump up, he drives his shoulder into her midsection and into the wall behind her.

She lets out a pained huff when they slam into the wall, but he regrets his bent-over position when her knee flies up, landing a solid blow against his chest. It's not enough to knock him away, so he readjusts so that his hands are biting into her neck. There's murder in her eyes when he cuts off her air supply, her hands scrabbling at his face and neck but finding no purchase.

Her hands close tightly around his wrists, and he thinks he's got this fight won. Instead of passing out, she manages to get her legs up between them and kicks into Hawkeye hard enough to make him fly into the opposite wall and drop her on the ground.

Then she goes for her gun. They had orders to bring the Widow back alive, but no such things were promised about whoever was with her.

He hears the gun go off, but instead of feeling the pain of a gunshot wound bloom on his body, he watches as the gun drops out of her hands, and she falls. The bullet hole in her temple makes his head snap to the side, where he sees the Black Widow, panting and bloody, with a gun in her hand. Probably picked up from one of the fallen agents.

"Jesus christ, that was maybe a minute, and you got all three of them?" he asks, not trying to hide his abashed surprise. He has always known she's good but _jesus._ That is something else.

He finally looks closely at her face, and sees that it's a mess of ruined makeup. Plaster strips hang off of her face in ruined chunks, revealing wounds closed with either yarn or butterfly bandages.

How injured is she really? She must've run into quite a bit of trouble before SHIELD got to her.

She must notice his inspection, and she runs a hand across her face, discarding the few bits of plaster that looked like peeling chunks of skin. "Hurry. We have to go before any more of them find us."

He reaches down to pick up his bow when he comes to the very abrupt realization that she'd chosen to save him. She could have easily allowed that agent to shoot him. She could've ditched him back in the Piazza. She's had so many opportunities to leave him or kill him and she hasn't taken any of them.

"Thanks for taking her out for me," he offers. "That might have gotten a bit sticky if you hadn't."

She stares blankly at him, before answering in mild confusion, "You are welcome."

God, she is so painfully awkward about it that he wants to give her an out as soon as possible. "So, lead the way."

She nods, obviously much more comfortable with that than having to accept his thanks. "This way," she says with a jerk of her head, directing them to the mouth of the alley. She is heavily favoring one leg now, but if she was so reluctant to accept his thanks, then she certainly won't accept his help.

* * *

"Nice digs," he comments as they enter the apartment.

"It belongs to a businessman who's going to be in Rome for the next two weeks. I stole his wallet and saw his itinerary," she tells him.

Not long after she'd awoken in the warehouse, hungover and nigh upon freezing, she'd decided abandoned buildings weren't going to cut it. Stealing that particular man's wallet was just a stroke of luck.

Mr. Patrizio Veranelli, born the thirteenth of August in 1976, was unmarried and had a stellar apartment. Light hardwood floors, marble kitchen, fancy bathroom. The works. Far too large for a single person, but it was starkly different to how she'd been spending her days prior.

They walk straight past the entryway, and the Widow stops in the living room. It's an open space, sparsely decorated with two white leather couches facing each other with a sleek, black coffee table in between them. Large bay windows on the opposite wall let in the overcast sunlight.

Neither of them make any moves to sit.

Not wanting to waste time on small talk (she only ever seems to do that with marks anyway), she turns so abruptly to face Hawkeye he nearly runs into her. The Widow takes three swift steps away from him and says frankly, "You haven't killed me. Last time we met, you said that you had standing orders to kill me. Are they still standing?"

"Yes."

"Oh."

"Listen -"

"Then why haven't you killed me yet?" she asks. She wonders how he can so callously disregard his orders, do it when it seems like he should _want_ to follow them. She killed his people. Right in front of him.

"Tell me something, Widow," he says, taking another step closer to her, "have you ever gotten orders you haven't liked before? Haven't wanted to follow?"

She swallows, tempted to back away as the threatens to invade her space but she stands her ground. His steps are silent even on the wood floors. "I... I don't..." ( _Mama, what are you doing?_ )

"Don't lie to me. I know you have."

She takes a step backwards.

"I could easily lie to you. I am an excellent liar," she points out.

She immediately regrets taking the step backwards as his eyes flicker down to her feet. She stands her ground again. "Don't deflect. Look, do you know who I work for?"

She shakes her head. "My superiors were never able to determine conclusively who you work for. Their best approximation was the CIA."

He nods, seemingly pleased with himself. "I'm a part of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Agency. Better known as SHIELD."

SHIELD. _SHIELD_. She feels like she's heard of it before, but never in a context she understood. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I want you to come work for us."

"I'm sorry?"

"Join SHIELD. We're the good guys. The Red Room? The KGB? Those people are bad news. I know I don't need to tell you that. They have made you do some absolutely awful shit. And you did it because those were your orders, because you never knew anything outside of what they were telling you."

"You know nothing about me." Another step backwards.

"On the contrary, Widow, I know a lot about you. I know that you were born January third, 1986," he says slowly, letting the power of the words sweep over her. "Your parents names were Sergei and Anya." Each piece of information feels like a physical blow, and she starts to back away from him, her body moving of it's own accord. _A taciturn man with thick round glasses - We would never want you to disappoint your country - A voluptuous woman who looks like her - You are a weapon of the republic._

She feels her head shaking. "No. No, I'm - I'm a weapon of the republic, I'm the Black Widow, I -" _But that's not my name._ Her head is pounding now, the pain so sharp and sudden it makes her gasp, her hands flying up to her temples.

"They died," he persists, not allowing her to retreat, matching her step for step, "in a house fire when you were almost three. You probably don't even remember them, because the government took you into their custody instead of looking for your next of kin."

Her hands are shaking and she can't stop it, and it feels like her head is going to explode.

There's a long, heavy silence between them, and Hawkeye never drops eye contact with her.

She can hear the beating of her heart, can feel the blood rushing in her ears.

_We have no use of a child who cannot follow orders._

_A white sun on a black sky._

_Erskine._

_No, no, please, stop, I won't_

_The blood, the red, the trachea spilling out_

_Mama, what are you doing?_

_I can fix it. There will be nothing left to save._

_Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Boom._

She lets her hands fall to her sides, clutching the fabric of her ruined coat. "I... I'm not... You said that... SHIELD... SHIELD is the good guys." He nods. "I'm not good. I've never _been_ good."

"Neither was I," he answers simply, and she startles. "I worked for anyone and everyone who wanted to give me money. I didn't care who I was killing, I didn't even really care if I _got_ killed. I was just... lost."

"So how... how are you here?"

"Because someone offered me exactly what I'm offering you. A second chance."

 _Can I even have a soul?_ "Who says I'm looking for one?"

He rolls his eyes at her response. "Oh, please. Don't give me that bullshit."

"You know nothing, Hawkeye," she says sharply, "I could snap your neck before you take your next breath."

"But you won't."

"You cannot know that."

"I do, because as much as you put on this front," he covers the ground between them quickly, invading her space so much so that they're almost breathing the same air, "you're dying on the inside. Don't tell me I don't know you, because this is like looking in a damn mirror. This is a chance to make up for everything you've ever done. Every good person you've ever killed."

_I may have red all over my hands, but so does every person on earth._

Sipho. Officer Soares. Red... _Alisa Katayev._ Ma jolie fleur. She can see them.

See all of them.

She remembers something then, something that Gavril said... _"...to make up for everything I'd ever done... They're helping me fix what I caused."_

She remembers the grip of a small hand around hers, leading him through the halls of a hospital in Kwa'Dukuza. _"This nice lady was helping me find you!"_

"I don't-" her breath catches in her throat. "I don't even know where to begin."

Steps backwards, digging in his back pocket. He holds out to her a small black pocketbook. Her hand raises up to take it, but she meets his gaze questioningly. "Yeah, go ahead."

Her fingers close around it. The cover looks well worn, and the bindings feel frayed. This book has been opened and closed, looked through and pored over, many, many times.

She opens it.

"It's a list of everyone I've killed. Everyone I can remember, anyway." The names are all in red ink, one per line. She flips through the pages. The names mean nothing to her, but the well-worn pages tell a different story about him. "I don't know why I killed any of these people. Some of them had families, some didn't. Some were probably terrible. I don't know, and I never want to know."

"Like a ledger," she says quietly. She looks up from the red names. "Do you keep track of people you've saved?"

He nods. "Try to, anyway."

She knows the first name that will go in her ledger. The first person she will make up for. "I have so much red."

"We all do. Doesn't mean we can't try to wipe it out."

In that moment, many things fall into place for Natalya Romanova.

_Let me do this one good thing._

_They're helping me fix what I caused._

_Sauvée!_

_You don't have to do this anymore._

"Okay. I'll do it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Afterword:
> 
> It's incredibly hard to believe that this story is finally coming to a close after over two years of dedication, writer's block, incredible amounts of frustration, as well as unbelievable amounts of terrific triumph and joy. I owe so much to the people who made this story happen.
> 
> If you've read this far, thank you, you special person. I salute you and am eternally grateful for you sticking with me the entire way through this story, through some brutal spelling and grammar errors as well as some really trying hiatuses. Special thanks to all those who left comments whose kind and inspiring words are the reason I write and the reason this story is finished today. I cannot adequately put into words just how much each review was cherished, read over multiple times when I was feeling sore about writing. This is truly a story for you all.
> 
> I also appreciate anyone who felt this story was worth your time and put it on your subscriptions and/or bookmarks lists. It means so much to me that people read what I write and emotionally connect to it, so I thank you for the opportunity to know I did that for some of you.
> 
> Big shout out to my beautiful readers on Tumblr who always are ready to kick my ass into gear with your kind and encouraging words.
> 
> Finally, thank you to my beautiful ninja warrior princess Hallie who gives me more support and friendship than I will ever feel worthy of and is the best last-minute beta I could ever have.
> 
> Since you've stuck with me through this afterword, I owe you some information about the upcoming addition to the FALLING IN REVERSE TRILOGY.
> 
> The next story will be entitled Perfection of Duality and will be coming out later this year. I will be editing/proofreading White and reposting it along with writing the sequel during this break. You can follow me on tumblr for writing updates/previews, or just check my #fanfic updates tag if you don't want/have a tumblr. Link is on my profile.
> 
> Perfection of Duality: Coming Summer of 2015. After she is brought into SHIELD by Hawkeye, the Black Widow learns how to be human, and two damaged people learn what true partnership really is. Slow-building Clintasha. Sequel to White.


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